


The Sound of Silence

by Quildosse



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: 66th Hunger Games, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Field Surgery, Grief/Mourning, Harm to Children, Hunger Games Tributes, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2021-04-01
Packaged: 2021-04-20 20:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22005745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quildosse/pseuds/Quildosse
Summary: Nobody likes to talk about the Sixty-sixth Annual Hunger Games. Even the Capitol. They have some surprisingly good reasons for that.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

The day had started well enough, despite it being Reaping Day. Most of the younger children had behaved well during breakfast and had gotten ready without causing too much trouble. Everyone had remained remarkably quiet, and no one had tried wandering off during the walk to the Square. Will had actually started to relax and think that, for once, maybe they will get lucky.

He should have known better.

First, little thirteen-year-old Rosie becomes the female tribute. Under their collective pitying gaze, she walks up to the stage visibly trembling in her slightly too large second-hand dress.

"She got no chance." Someone murmurs in the crowd, their words echoing in the resigned hush, and he can't help but regretfully agree. Rosie is a tiny slip of a girl who spends most of her time taking care of flowers in the greenhouses. He often had to kill the invasive bugs for her, since she had never been able to do it herself. Too kind-hearted for her own good, the adults had often said. She would never be capable of killing a human being.

Then, their escort digs into the glass bowl to pick the male tribute, and there is no point in pitying the small girl on the stage because the Capitol woman calls out his name.

Suddenly, the persistent ball of fear in his stomach he had every single time at the Reapings seems to expand. He felt like throwing up.

The crowd shifts in front of him, and he slowly makes his way forward, his body numb and feet like lead. There is a bead of sweat dripping down the back of his neck, but he doesn’t bother to wipe it away, keeping his visage impassive instead to mask his terror. He could no longer afford to look weak or scared. From the moment the cameras shifted towards him, the Hunger Games have started.

He barely registers the rest of the Reaping, ignoring the long-drawn, dull reading of the Treaty of Treason – they’ve all heard it so many times by now they could recite it in their sleep – but does attempt to give Rosie a reassuring smile when they shake hands and he notices her baby blue eyes glittering with unshed tears.

Before he knows it, he is being shoved into an empty room and left alone. He does not wait for long, the door bursting open again almost immediately, and a few of his closest siblings spill into the room. Eva runs straight into his arms, burying her weeping face into his threadbare shirt.

"You have to come back, Willy!" She cries. "You have too!"

"Promise you'll come back!" The twins chorus clutching his arms.

"I promise I will do my best, loves." He whispers into Eva's hair, trying to conceal his own tears in her thick, dark curls.

"That's not enough, Will." Basil claims angrily. "That's nowhere near enough!"

"But it's all he can do. You know that." Spade pacifies the other in the reasonable tone he used when trying to keep himself calm for the younger children. When the other boy clicks his tongue sharply but does not argue, Spade turns back towards William with a sigh. "Do what it takes to come home, you hear me, little brother? Suck up to the sponsors if you have too. You have a pretty face, use it. And whatever happens, never, and I mean _never_, hesitate to kill. Go for the deathblow from the get go. Don't think of them as human."

"Yeah, okay, I can do that." He swallows roughly and looks up at his two older siblings. "They're just rats who got into the storehouses again."

"Fuck, yes!" Basil chuckles bitterly. "They're all nothing but fucking rats."

"You kill rats well." Eva murmurs, and he tightens his arms around her. They have so much to say to each other, and so little time, they end up standing in silence the few precious seconds they have left together.

"I love you." Finally bursts out of his mouth, desperate and wretched just as the door closes behind them, and the last glimpse of he has of his siblings is of a single, silent tear running down Basil's cheek.

To his great surprise, the Matron is his next visitor. She had never shown any particular love towards him, and to be honest, he had not thought she cared. She sniffs disapprovingly at his tear-stained top but does not comment on it.

"Take care of Rosalie, boy." The woman says. "At the very least while in the Capitol. And do try not to be one to kill her in the Games."

He frowns in response. "Blood or no blood, she still is my little sister. I'll take care of her even in the Arena."

"Good. You're a good boy, William, always willing to help out." He ducks his head down, embarrassed by the unexpected and unusually praise, his ears reddening slightly. "Don't forget to take care of yourself too sometimes, and don't try playing the hero. Don't fight needlessly, Basil and the other boys might have dragged you into plenty of fights, but I doubt your mere brawling skills will do you much good against bigger and stronger opponents. Especially against Careers Tributes. Run and hide instead, but don't try to outlast anyone. If you enter an alliance, slit their throats while they sleep, before they stab you in the back."

His hands catch his eye, and he inspects them miserably. With their dry and cracked skin, and long, thin fingers covered in calluses, and with the permanent dirt under his fingernails, they belonged to a gardener, and not to a trained warrior, to a killer.

"I don't think I can." He quietly confesses, because while he had put up a brave face in front of six-year-old Eva, he could not do it with the woman who all but raised him. "I understand what I need to do in my head, but I don't think I can."

"You can because you need too. You can't afford to be gentle anymore, William Hadley, if you want to live. Be ruthless and smart. That is the only way you stand a chance of winning." With that, the Matron turns around and leaves.

Will cannot help but notice the woman has not stayed the full allotted time for her visit. He is not surprised. It was not the first or last time she will need to say her goodbyes this way. In District 11, orphans always had the highest chance of being reaped.

There are no more visitors after that, so he sits on the edge of the velvet couch, running his fingers in wonder at the softness over the fabric. There must be people still visiting Rosie. She was always well-liked, even outside school and work areas. Always so sweet and friendly. Unlike him. He interacted little outside their makeshift family, always busy with making sure no one got into trouble by being stupid little shits.

It's not long before the guards are back to escort him to the train station, flanking him from either side as if he would attempt to escape. But really, where would he go? Death was waiting for him either way.

Soon enough, the Peacekeepers are back and he’s escorted out to a car. When Rosie catches sight of him, she immediately clutches at his sleeve and refuses to let go. He does not fight her. She needs comfort, and he feels calmer when he knows where she is. Nevertheless, they have yet to say a word to each other. Talking – acknowledging it – he thought, would have made everything real. Somewhere deep inside, he still hoped this was nothing but a dream. A nightmare. That he was going to wake up any minute now.

The ride from the Justice Building to the train station is surprisingly nothing new. He had expected cars to be a little more different from the tractors they occasionally used in the orchards during harvest season. If anything, the ride was smoother and didn’t shake as much.

The station was thoroughly overflowing with reporters and their various cameras. Rosie tightens her grip on his clothes, and he steps slightly in front of her.

There is a television screen on the wall he could see their image on while they pose for the cameras. He looks protective as if he is trying to shield the frightened little girl behind him. The other tributes will take that as a weakness, but the sponsors might like it. Cashmere and Gloss are beloved by the entire Capitol and they weren’t even in the same Games. He did not see why two siblings who choose to stick together through thick and thin alone against the rest of the world would do any worse. Star-crossed lovers without the lovers part.

They are eventually allowed into the train, and Will lets out a relieved breath. Rosie, on the other hand, bursts into tears.

He immediately panics. Spade was the one who dealt with crying children, not him! He stood to the side with Basil and tried not to get in the way. "Aw, come on, Rosie. Please don't cry, you know I don't like it when you cry."

"You don't like it when any one of us cries." She sniffles.

Did he hug her? Stroked her hair? Do both at the same time? "It's the big brother instincts, sweetheart. I can't really help it. Like Basil can't help punching people in the face when he's angry."

"I'm sorry, Willy."

Both. He’ll do both, he decides as he hugs her tight and runs a shaky hand through her soft blond hair. "It's alright, I understand. I promise I won't leave you alone, alright? I'll be with you every step of the way. Till the very end."

"Even in the Arena?"

"Especially in the Arena, flower."

* * *

Though they were each given their own quarters with a bedroom, and a private bathroom with a shower with both hot and cold running water, an almost unheard-of luxury in District 11, to his relief Rosie insists they bunk together. At the orphanage, they had always shared rooms, and he does not remember a time when he had slept alone. He doubted he would be able to rest well without another person breathing beside him.

It is Lucretia, their escort, that comes to get them for supper. She is eternally dressed in various shades of red with accents of gold, though her clothes are rarely as outrageous as the ones he sees other Capitolites wearing on the television. It was other things that tended to attract attention to her, instead.

Her hair, for example, was dyed a dark crimson color and pulled into a tight braid which was tied by a golden embellishment at the end, then part of it she styled into a bun on top of her head which was also held together by a golden ornament. She let the remaining long queue hang free. And her eyebrows had been a great source of amusement at school too. No one could quite understand why she would feel the need to shave the real ones off and paint smudge-like dots in their place. They generally attributed it to Capitol strangeness and left it at that.

When the enter the expensive dining room after Lucretia, their mentors were already inside, obviously waiting for them.

"Well, come in." Seeder impatiently gestures them over when Rosie freezes in the doorway. "We have too little time to stand around doing nothing."

"Let the kids eat first." Chaff gently chides from where he was pouring himself a glass to drink of what Will assumed to be alcohol. The one-handed man was their resident District drunk. "They must be starving."

Hesitantly they sit down, and they are served their supper. It comes in courses; a thick carrot soup, green salad, lamb chops, and mashed potatoes, cheese and fruit, and a large chocolate cake.

"It's the same thing every year." Lucretia comments with a sigh, but they are barely listening. Ordinarily, the Matron carefully proportioned out this amount of food among ten to fifteen of her charges. And it is so good, and unlike anything else they have ever eaten, they cannot help but stuff themselves. It is only the table matters beaten into him since childhood that prevent him from abandoning his utensils in favor of his fingers.

The quantity of food remaining on the plates after the meal is over makes him want to cry more than being reaped did. "What's going to happen to it?"

"Thrown out in the trash, I expect." Lucretia negligently waves a meticulously manicured hand. "What else would you do with leftovers?"

He would not know. They never had leftovers.

He feels slightly sick from overeating for the first time in his life but obediently moves over to the next compartment to watch the recap of the Reapings across Panem. In the Capitol, people could see it live as it happens, but because the Districts have to attend the Reapings themselves, they watch the complete thing at the end of the day.

The District 1 tributes will be this year's favorites, he already knows even before they show them on the screen. District 1 was always in the running with their incredibly beautiful, trained since birth volunteers. Nothing new there.

Two other potential picks for favorite came from Districts 7 and 10, a hulking boy of about eighteen and a somewhat thinner boy in bloodstained clothing of about sixteen, respectively.

"Tough crowd this time." Chaff murmurs. "I'll wager the boy from 10 is a butcher. Just look at all that blood, he must have come to the Reaping right from work."

"How unsightly." Their escort mutters.

"And the one from 7 is a lumberjack." Seeder adds. "You'll have to be careful of those two. They'll know how to use sharp weapons as well as Careers."

It is District 11's turn, and there is no way the others will miss his protectiveness towards Rosie. Not with how he was angling his body to hide her behind him practically the entire time they were on camera, and not with how she held on to him from start to finish. Even one of the commentators' notices, wondering aloud if they were somehow related, or if they were just friends despite the age gap. Fifteen years old boys were not often buddies with thirteen years old girls.

"_Are_ you related?" Lucretia asks, suspiciously looking them over.

Will smirks slightly at her doubt. It was a common mistake since they did look alike and were some of the few pale-skinned people in the District. "Not that we know off." He replies, shaking his head.

"Pity. Imagine the number of sponsors you would have had if we spun a story of you two being long-lost siblings." The escort laments.

Rosie stares at Seeder incredulously. "They wouldn't really believe that, would they?"

"You would think that they would be smarter. But no, they will believe anything they read or see on the news." Seeder laughs bitterly. “They are like sheep in that aspect. To them, the government can do no wrong.”

"I can't argue with that." Lucretia despondently sighs. "Sometimes, my fellow Capitolites can be so naive. Aquila, that's the District 12 escort..."

"We might not be related by blood." Will interjects, eager to return to the previous topic before they get stuck in an hour-long gossip session. "But we were raised together in the orphanage. Maybe the self-chosen siblings' angle might be even better liked."

"The others will take that as a weakness." Chaff cautions.

"I know. It's already too late for that anyway." He gestures towards the screen where he was herding Rosie in front of him into the train.

The other man looks up at from his glass of red wine. "Will you be able to play protective siblings in the Arena too? The worst thing you could do is to drop the act the moment you're in danger."

He closes his eyes, feels the train moving faster than he could imagine for a long moment while he gathers his courage.

He had only thought about it until now. He made vague promises that he could break at any moment. Presently, what the mentors needed from him was commitment. Whatever he chooses, there will be no coming back or second-guessing.

When he opens his eyes again, their blue color is ice cold with determination.

"She's my little sister. I'm not leaving her alone. I can't."

And Seeder smiles for the first time. It is not a nice one. "We can use that."

* * *

They don't get much done after that. There is an attempt to discuss strategies for the training, but it had been a long and hard day, and everyone was tired. So, he eventually picks up Rosie who had fallen asleep nestled into his side on the couch in a princess carry and bids goodnight to the adults, before slowly making his way back to their allocated room.

It was not the first time he had to tuck in sleepy little siblings into bed, though Rosie had always preferred Basil for some unfathomable reason. Their brother was among the rougher spoken ones, and perhaps the most violent of their siblings. The older girls suspected she had a crush on the boy since he had saved her from some rich kid bullies at school several years ago. That fight had ended with most of the participants suspended, Will included, and students still talked about it in hushed whispers. The Matron had been extremely unimpressed and had given a beating they remember to this day. Quill has yet to try touching pruning shears outside work areas. Still, for a little girl who had just lost her parents, it must have looked mighty impressive. Maybe she likened Basil to a knight in shining armor straight out from those fairy tales she used to love so much. Every little girl dreamed of being a princess once.

He sits at the edge of the bed and stares at the blond head peeking out from under the covers. How often had he sat the same way comforting siblings after their nightmares? He reaches out a trembling hand and smooths down some flyaway hair gingerly. Once, others had done the same to him. Only now they have grown up and left to start their own families. And in one case, reaped. She had not gotten out of the Cornucopia Bloodbath alive, and for months after, he saw her dying face everywhere he went. He did not want the same for Eva, and Hazel and Heather, the twins who had already seen their parents shot by Peacekeepers, and all the other little ones back at the orphanage. They did not need to see their big brother dying.

"What are we going to do, angel?"

Tomorrow they will reach the Capitol, and they will not have a moment to rest anymore. It will be all Chariot Rides, and training, and interviews, and then, in the end, the Arena. If they are lucky, the Careers will not consider them a threat, and leave them for last, if they are not, they will be among the first to be hunted down. Although maybe not the very first, there had been a twelve-year-old boy from District 8, Needle, and a sickly-looking girl from 6.

"Her name was Luna. She volunteered for her best friend." He whispers in the dark. "She's probably dying already." Judging by her wan appearance and his considerable experience with ill children, she wouldn’t have lasted the season in 11.

"Willy?" Rosie murmurs voice thick with sleep.

"Nothing, princess. Go back to sleep."

"M'kay." She shuffles around a bit before her soft breathing evens out again.

He attempts to lie down too. Minutes pass, and he gives up going to sleep any time soon. The problem with the bed is that it is exceedingly comfortable, the sheets made of soft silk, and the covers thick and fluffy. He feels like he is drowning in the mattress. Back home, they might as well have just slept on planks of wood for all the difference it made.

* * *

He must have finally drifted off at some point because it is the rapping on the door that wakes him, and leaves him blinking up at the smooth, low ceiling in confusion. Where were the wooden rafters of the attic dormitory he’d been sleeping in for as long as he could remember?

"Breakfast!" Lucretia calls, and he hears her heels clicking away on the polished floor. Oh, right. He’d been reaped.

He pushes himself up with a groan and shakes his arm out of the grip Rosie had on it. He had not realized she liked cuddling in her sleep. "Time to get up, sleepyhead. We've got a big day today."

"I don't wanna..."

"Up." Will unceremoniously yanks off the covers and goes rooting through the drawers for new clothes, while the girl stares at him with a betrayed expression from the bed. There is not a shred of pity in him. She better be grateful he had not gone for an ice bath as the Matron tends to do for the ones who overslept.

He moves to the bathroom and lifts an eyebrow in incredulity at the multitude of buttons. Shrugging eventually, he starts pushing every single one to understand what they did since they weren’t helpfully labeled.

If it had been up to him, he would have had only two buttons, one for hot water and the other for cold, and maybe one for body wash if he didn’t have a bar soap. Why anyone would need a dozen buttons alone for colorful bubbles, he had not the faintest idea. And how was he supposed to know which of the many substances the buttons dispensed was for cleaning? They were all of different shades and consistencies… Despite having ended up having to guess, the shower he ultimately gets out of it is heavenly. It was like being under a water sprinkler on a warm, sunny day, only hotter. And he actually got clean, without having any mud thrown at him by mischievous siblings or having to wait after for his clothes to dry.

After getting ready, they make their way to the dining room for the already served breakfast. It was a wonder the table did not break under the weight of the enormous platters piled upon it.

Sitting down, he spoons a bit of egg, ham, and fried potatoes unto a plate and passes it to Rosie, contenting himself with just fruit. He never liked eating heavily in the morning, and especially not on days when he felt nervous.

They eat in silence, although Lucretia does attempt to start several conversations. She ends up leaving in a huff when they ignore her.

They already had said everything the previous evening, and gossip about the latest scandals of high society could not interest them any less at this very moment.

Soon enough, the car goes dark as the train enters the tunnel that runs under the mountains surrounding the Capitol. When it starts slowing down, and they blink out the spots from their eyes from the sudden return of light, the two of them move to the windows under the careful watch of their mentors.

They really could not help themselves. Seeing things on the television screen and in real life were two incredibly different things. They had made a game of it once, on a sleepless night when everyone had been too sick to sleep – because if one was sick, they were all infected in short order too – trying to imagine how the Capitol looked. There had been suggestions for flying cars. Someone had proposed floating houses. And another had joked that they had roofs and roads made of gold.

"It's so strange." Rosie declares wrinkling her brow in bewilderment, and Will hums in agreement.

The city could not be any different from their simple District 11 with its rolling orchards and glistening greenhouses. Here, the buildings rose high into the sky, and shiny, new cars rolled down wide paved streets instead of rusty, old tractors that broken down every couple of days, and the people seemed to wear every color of the rainbow at once. He likens them to the peacocks and parrots from the old picture books at school. It almost hurt to look at them without having watery eyes.

The Capitolites begin eagerly pointing and waving once they realize a tribute train was rolling into the city. He glances back towards the mentors passively drinking their coffee – plain black for Seeder and liberally dosed with spirits for Chaff – and nudges Rosie with his elbow. "Wave back. Make yourself look friendly, cute. Make them love you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own The Hunger Games.


	2. Chapter 2

As far as he knew from the unfrequently shown programs played on their tiny television at school, Capitolites usually contented themselves with dyes and plastic surgery. But when his prep team members had first walked in, he had stared a little, futilely wishing his eyes were deceiving him. Nothing could have prepared him to the sight of a man who had real gems implanted into his body, or another who had scarred patterns carved into his face and arms with what Will suspected had been some kind of sharp blade. It would seem is prep team took their body modifications even more seriously than most, and he had to admit, as ridiculous as they looked to him, there was a certain elegance to their alterations if he ignored the garish colors of their hair and the absurd clothes they were wearing. Unlike some of the other prep teams he had spotted earlier on the way in, they hadn’t continued modifying their bodies until there was barely any of their original skin left. It was all obviously planned out well in advance, before actually going through it, and not a spur of the moment decision when they were drunk like a District 2 stylist who had a giant tattoo of _something_ on his face. A very undistinguishable _something_.

His stylist, on the other hand, had decided to tint himself from head to toe in a lovely shade of purple dye that reminded Will of lavender. Thankfully, he wore nothing crazy, contenting himself instead with a simple, but no doubt still very expensive, dress shirt and pants combo, with his hair in a small tail and a pair of silver hoop earrings in each ear. It gave Will the slightest optimism that maybe their Chariot Costumes wouldn’t be giant flowers again. Their district tributes had looked utterly idiotic the previous year, though fortunately, District 12 had saved them from being the laughing stock by being sent out covered in nothing but coal dust.

"My name is Bacchus." His stylist lazily introduces himself and takes out a cigarette from his pocket. "I'm replacing the regular District 11 stylist for this year only while she enjoys her honeymoon. It's nice to meet you, William." 

"Will, please." He cautiously replies. "It's nice to meet you too."

The man starts walking around him, almost clinically examining his thoroughly scrubbed and shaved body. He eyes him back inquisitively, not feeling self-conscious at all. Whatever body modesty he ever might have had as a child, had been quickly forgotten at the orphanage where they never bathed alone to conserve water and where various siblings were prone to bursting into a room at any time. The oldest of their siblings have mastered changing their clothes in ten seconds flat, and for Will, the longest it takes is half a minute and that was on a bad day. 

"It is unusual to see pale-skinned tributes from District 11." Bacchus drawls thoughtfully.

"There's not a lot of us in the district, and they are generally the richer ones, so they have much fewer chances to be reaped when you take into consideration the tesserae. I think my parents were pretty well off before they died.” He explains needlessly as the man appeared not to be listening and had leaned in to examine his hair instead.

Will bends away, somewhat suspicious. He has been poked and jabbed by the prep team plenty already, and wanted nothing more done to him. Was it not enough they had covered him from top to bottom in glitter? For a moment there, he had been afraid that only would be their costumes. Even his exhibitionism had a limit. 

"Isn't it lovely, Bacchus? A beautiful blond so pale, I would almost call it platinum. And his eyes, such a clear icy blue!" Coco, the only female prep member and the only visibly non-surgically altered of the three, though she had the longest nails he’s ever seen, gushes from her corner. 

"What about his face?" The scarred male, Felix, counters hotly. "He's as pretty as it gets. I would have mistaken him for a girl if I had seen him on the street."

Will shoots him a glare in response. He’d been teased for looking girly often enough, thank you. It was not an advantage anywhere other than the Games, and even then, only with the Capitolites. The other tributes were more likely to think him weak, and that would hurt his chances of finding a good alliance. If he hadn’t already been planning on allying with Rosie, that is. He doubted anyone else will be interested when they find that out.

"Now, now. Don't scare the poor boy away." The stylist breaths out the smoke from his cigarette with a contemplative hum and finally gives Will some space, making his way through a door to a sitting room.

Pulling on a silk robe handed to him by one of the prep members, Will follows. As he sits down on one of the two couches, Bacchus presses a button on the side of a table. The top splits open, and another tabletop rises from below, holding what he assumes was their lunch and various ice creams for dessert. The others start eating straight away, but he tentatively nudges the raw fish with the tip of his fork, instead.

“It’s quite safe to eat,” Cyrus mistakenly reassures him, as it wasn’t the freshness that was the problem. He might never have had fish before, but he was quite sure it wasn’t supposed to be raw. “caught in District 4 just this morning.”

Still cautious and not the least soothed, Will nevertheless starts eating too. The Matron had taught him never to waste food, and he was not going to start now, even when running the risk of food poisoning. The Capitol must have good doctors, and they wouldn’t let a tribute get sick, right?

“So, William.” Bacchus eventually says, peering at his over the rim of his wine glass. “What do you think of butterflies?”

“Butterflies?” He repeats questioningly, wrinkling his nose lightly. “I don’t mind them, but what do they have to do with anything?”

“The costumes for the opening ceremonies must suggest your district’s principal industry.” The stylist explains. “For 11, that is agriculture. You are known for your fruits, berries, and vegetables, and what do they all have in common?”

“Flowers?” He hazards a guess after some though still uncertain in where their discussion was going. “Most of them have flowers at some point?”

“Exactly. And what do flowers have?”

“Nectar!” Coco exclaims with a light giggle as if that explained anything.

“And what does nectar do?” Bacchus prompts.

Attract pollinators like fruit-eating bats, and hummingbirds, and bees and… “We’re going to be butterflies?” He asks, still feeling confused.

Bacchus sighs exasperatedly. “Yes, William. You’re going to be butterflies.”

And that’s better than giant flowers, how exactly?

* * *

A few hours later, long after their short lunch had become a forgotten memory, he has to admit that maybe Bacchus knew what he was doing after all. He was finally dressed in the finished product, and honestly, it was not as bad as he had been expecting when he’d realized they were going to be dressed as butterflies of all things.

With a frilly white dress shirt, and darker pants so tight they left little to imagination tucked into shiny leather boots, it seemed a little antiquated, but the delicate wings that completed the costume negated that entirely. Glittering and blue, they hung down his back like a cape with a large slit in the middle. Supposedly, they were going to be unfolded by the air created by the moving chariot.

“Rosie is gonna love this.” He mutters with a small smile, twisting and turning in front of a mirror so large it took up the entire wall.

“Well, of course.” Coco happily chirps while packing up her makeup kit. She had been in charge of drawing a beautiful flower and vine design with glued on gems over his cheekbones and around the edges of his dramatically shadowed eyes to his forehead. It felt strange, almost heavy on his face. “What kind of little girl doesn’t desire to be a gorgeous butterfly even once in her life?”

Bacchus, once again observing him from all angles, purses his mouth. “Let’s add some lipstick. A glossy blue to keep with the color theme. And William, you have no idea how glad I am you keep your hair that long.”

He smiles. “My sisters insisted. They claimed it was a shame to have it short, and I can always throw it up in a bun if it bothers me.” It wasn’t actually very long, barely brushing below his shoulders, so he hadn’t minded keeping it that way. The little ones had enjoyed playing with it.

The stylist nods. “They were right. We were thinking of using a wig with a similar hair color to yours before, but your length was perfect for the half up, half down braid we had planned.”

“They wanted it longer, but we compromised. The other boys would have teased me mercilessly if I gave in.” He confesses. 

“How strange. Here, no one would blink if a man had hair to the floor.” Cyrus remarks, taking out a bejeweled flower hairpin from a case and sets to carefully inserting it in the middle where the two side braids met.

“There. You’re done.” Bacchus claims with satisfaction. “Just in time too. Felix, help the boy with the wings. The fabric is too fragile to have it drag on the floor like that.”

“By the way,” He asks as they make their way down to the stables located on the bottom level of the Remake Center. “how do you fit the costumes so well after seeing us only once during our Reaping?”

Bacchus turns towards him, pulling out another cigarette. “That is a trade secret, sorry. Now, we’ll go get the chariot ready, so try not to get in trouble meanwhile. Hitting other tributes is not allowed, no matter how annoying they are or what they say.”

With everyone he knew gone, he loiters around for a while, trying to ignore the stares of the other tributes before being accosted by an excited Rosie who had just arrived. “Look, look! We’re fairies, Willy!”

“Yes, I noticed.” He replies dryly, but the girl doesn’t seem to notice his tone, too busy twirling to show off her new dress, and he obligingly compliments her on it.

It was a ball gown with a skirt that looked to be made of a multitude of large petals, and a corset of small white and pink flowers. Her wings were pink and smaller than his, but her makeup was similar despite the different color schemes, while her hair had been curled and adorned with a pretty flower crown of white metal and gems. 

“Fairies, Willy.” She repeats with a dreamy sight, and he finally laughs. It looked like Rosie was so delighted to finally fulfill her childhood wish, she forgot to be terrified.

“You did say you’d be one, one day.” He teases.

She flushes red. “I was a kid!”

One of the District 2 tributes gives a loud disdainful snort passing by, and Rosie shrinks back into his side.

“Ignore them,” Will tells her. “there is nothing wrong with fantasizing once in a while.”

“I know.” She whispers, and after a slight pause, tentatively asks. “What was he supposed to be?”

He looks back at the other boy who had been joined by his fellow district tribute at their chariot, and furrows his freshly plucked eyebrows, observing quizzically the white body paint and equally white tunics. “Stone? Ancient statues, maybe?” Whatever they were supposed to be, he wasn’t completely certain, though the tunics, if nothing else, were tasteful.

“District 1 looks pretty.” He follows her gaze and nods in agreement. They were both wearing full-body leotards of glitter and crystals, and sparkling, translucent capes, while their hair had been twisted into complicated hairdos with more gems plaited in. Perhaps a little too shiny for his tastes, but far from the worst he’s seen from the district of jewelry. 

“And District 3 looks funny.” An unknown voice interjects behind them, and Will twitches, startled, before whirling around, protectively pulling his little sister behind him almost instinctively. The bare-chested boy grins, green eyes crinkling at the edges in amusement, and Rosie squeaks, abruptly turning red again. “I think they are supposed to be robots. District 4, Nyle Abano.” He introduces himself. 

“William Hadley, and Rosalie Gardenier from District 11.” He replies with a polite but cold smile of his own.

“Charmed.” Nyle drawls, and his necklace of coral, shells, and pearls clicks as he leans in to observe the designs on his face, brazenly invading his personal space, and making him clench his teeth in annoyance. Will tolerated only his siblings this close to him. “You make absolutely gorgeous fairies.”

“Butterflies actually, but thank you, anyway. You are supposed to be mermaids?” He glanced down inquiringly at the skirt the other boy was wearing which shimmered in the dim lights like scales.

“That’s right,” Will notes that the other boy looked pleased about something. “Our stylist says the style of Cora’s gown is literally called a mermaid dress. Very unoriginal, if you ask me, but they did do a good job this time. Last year’s costumes were bad all around for absolutely everyone, not just you or 12.”

“I remember. Yours wore seashell swimsuits.” The girl’s costume had been so skimpy she would have been more decent naked. But they also had Finnick Odair as their tribute that year too, so no one really complained at the Capitol. On the other hand, Nyle’s moue of distaste at the reminder told him everything he needed to know about how their district had reacted. The poor boy had been only fourteen, and however attractive he already was at his age, he didn’t deserve to wear that in front of the entire nation. 

A loud bell rings and a woman’s voice announces that there were only five minutes left before the parade begins. “Ah, well. I’ll see you later then, William.” The bronze-skinned boy promises and swaggers off. 

He watches Nyle join his district partner, feeling a little caught off-guard. “What did he want?” He wonders aloud. 

“I think he wanted to meet you,” Rosie suggests to him slyly. “maybe he liked you?” 

“Don’t be stupid.” He chides her, glancing down at her with a frown. “We are going to be opponents, and there is no reason for a Career to look for an alliance with me. I think I made it pretty clear I wasn’t going to leave you behind.” 

“I still think he just wanted to talk to you.” She shrugs.

He rolls his eyes and ushers his meddlesome little sister toward their chariot with its customary District 11 brown horses. Nothing flashy for them like for the richer Districts. “Just because I don’t have any friends outside our siblings, lovely, it doesn’t mean I need new ones. Especially not anyone that we will be facing in the Arena later on.” 

* * *

The opening music begins, blasted loudly from every direction. Massive doors slide open, revealing the colorful, crowded streets, and the District 1 chariot rides out, pulled by its traditional white horses. The crowd’s roar grows in volumes for two of their favorite tributes, and when District 2 rides out next, it doesn’t lessen but seems to get louder.

The drive will last twenty minutes and end in the City Circle, where the Capitol will welcome them, play the anthem and finally escort them into the Training Center, which will be their home base until the Games. Already, Will is dreading it. From now on, they would be under constant supervision, with no chance for privacy because even their bathrooms would have cameras. The Capitol wasn’t taking any chances ever since one of the tributes electrocuted themselves in the tub early in the Hunger Games. They had it reported as an accident, but everyone in the Districts knew it was actually a suicide.

Cyrus makes some last-minute arrangements of their capes, and then, they are moving. A hand wraps around his own, and he gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Just smile and wave.” He reminds her.

As their chariot starts gaining speed, their capes lift off the ground they were dragging on, and the spider silk thin fabric really does snap open like wings, revealing their intricated detailing to the crowd enthusiastic response.

Rosie lifts a hand and waves the entire ride, laughing brightly and face glowing in excitement. Even Will can’t help the small smile that sneaks unto his face, although he doesn’t wave as often, only raising his hand a few times, just enough to leave a good impression.

The twelve chariots slowly fill the loop of the City Circle. A quick glance up confirms that every window of surrounding buildings is crammed to the brim with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol as he had been expecting.

As soon as the last chariot halts and the music ends with a flourish, President Snow appears on a balcony. He was a small, thin man with hair white from age and looked so ordinary despite his elegant style of dress, it was hard to believe he was the most hated man out in the poorer districts.

“Welcome.” He says, starting his welcoming speech. It’s always a new variation of the same things he says each year, but the people still quiet down to listen as if caught in a rapture. “Tributes, we welcome you with great pleasure to the Capitol.” He continues. “We salute your courage, your sacrifice. And, needless to say, we wish you Happy Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favor.”

The National Anthem begins to play, and the chariots parade one last time around the circle, and they disappear into the Training Center, the tributes final home and prison before the deaths of all but one. 

As soon as they are inside, they are surrounded by their two prep teams who were jabbering over one another as they all tried to congratulate them at the same time. Bacchus and Rosie’s stylist are also there, busy taking off their fragile capes before they were trampled and ripped.

Their chariot costumes, as all their future ones, will be going the Hunger Games museum and preserved for future generations as soon as those ones end. They say the building had a floor added each year and contained not just the costumes of the tributes, but the weapons and supplies they had used, and occasionally, even preserved bodies, if they died in a particularly interesting or unique manner. Will, personally, thought it distasteful and gruesome. It was bad enough the Arenas were considered historical landmarks and were always left open for the Capitolites to revisit as tourist destinations with the option of taking part in re-enactments after the conclusion of their games. The same had been done to the Capitol Arena, a rundown amphitheater that had been used before the invention of the present-day Arenas.

Rosie finally releases his hand, and jumps off the chariot to run towards their approaching mentors. “It was amazing! There were so many people, and it was so loud, and did we do good? I think we did well. I was so scared at first…”

“Easy, easy there, sweetheart.” Chaff laughs, and places his single remaining hand on the tiny girl’s head to stop her adrenaline-fueled bouncing. “You did good, kid. The hand-holding was a nice touch and sent a powerful statement.”

Rosie lowers her eyes bashfully. “It wasn’t anything like that. I just did it because I was scared, and Basil always lets me hold his hand when I was younger. And I know Willy does the same for other kids. Like the twins.”

“Not Hazel,” Will interjects with a fond roll of his eyes. “he thinks eight-year-olds are far too old for that, and he’s a big boy now, and big boys don’t cry, hug, or hold hands. Heather’s the one who’s never going grow out of cuddling everything and everyone.”

“Oh, they sound adorable.” Coco breaths. “And this Basil, is he another of your siblings? You must have a very large family!”

“We do. There is always someone new joining us.”

Thus, softly chatting in that fashion, they follow after a Capitol attendant who was directing them towards the elevators. As the doors slid shut, Will frowns distractedly and turns his head back just in time to meet the eyes of an unsmiling Nyle Abano. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own The Hunger Games.


	3. Chapter 3

Their home until the actual Games begin was located in a tower of the Training Center exclusively designed for the tributes and their teams. Each district had its own floor reachable by a beautiful crystal elevator. They had never ridden one before, so both of them watched the people on the ground floor shrink as they rose into the air with fascination. Despite having grown up climbing the trees in their orchards, it didn’t prepare them to be so high up, or the feeling of having forgotten their stomach far below them from the speed of they were climbing up the floor levels. For some reason, Will had thought it would be at least somewhat similar.

With them were their two mentors, their stylists, and their escort, Lucretia, who had appeared almost out of nowhere gushing their praises. Apparently, Rosie’s innocent hand-holding had been very well received by the sponsors. “At this point, not allying in the arena will be taken extremely badly and will lose you a lot of support.” She warns them shrewdly. “The people want their team of tragic siblings. They want their new Cashmere and Gloss.” 

“But one of us will die, even if the other wins the Games.” Rosie quietly says, finally coming out of her Parade-created high. 

“Oh, they aren’t thinking of that yet.” The older woman waves a hand dismissively. “Give them until the Launching. They’ll realize it then. And then they’ll be already so attached they’ll do everything in their power for the two of you to survive for as long as possible.” 

He exchanges a glance with his little sister and decided not to comment. It was clear they would never understand what goes on in the minds of the Capitolites. At times, they seemed so smart, after all, someone had to think up something like the Games, which no matter how cruel were terribly effective in reminding the Districts of what will happen should they ever contemplate the idea of rebellion again, but at other times they could also be such idiots.

“Lucretia will be helping us find sponsor deals for you” Seeder explains the younger woman’s continued presence. “Only we, as mentors, can close the deals, but she can assist in winning over potential sponsors to our side by using all of her many, and I mean many, acquaintances and friends. Her large social network is one of the numerous reasons she was chosen as an escort. It’s a requirement to apply for this job. Aspirants are immediately out of the running if they don’t know two or three sponsors prior to applying for the job.”

“I will also be chaperoning you when your mentors are busy. It’s just so easy to get lost in here if you don’t know where to go.” 

The doors of the elevator slide open, and their quarters are revealed to them, for the first time. They were so big they could fit the entire orphanage with no problem and then have some space left over. The walls and floors seemed to be made of marble and everything looked so strange and alien, Will couldn’t fathom how anyone could be comfortable living in such a cold place. Their rooms were located on a mezzanine, and they could lay almost all of their siblings comfortably on their beds alone. The entire residence was filled with what seemed like hundreds of unfamiliar and doubtless unnecessary gadgets, while their windows could zoom in and out on parts of the city at their command or show various nature scenes. In the corner hangs a mouthpiece, into which you need to only say a type of food you want from a gigantic menu, and it will appear in barely a minute. It was soulless and impersonal. It didn’t look lived in. It’s been barely a day, and he already missed having to step over piles of blankets and having to watch for toys under his feet.

Their dinner is served nearly as soon as they arrive. The food was excellent and worthy of the Capitol; soup and greens and more fresh meat than he had ever seen before, but the whole time he feels tense, picking at his plate like he never had before. There had always been too little food to waste it by pushing it around with a fork and not eating it. It was the servers, he knew. All visually-pleasing young people, dressed in white tunics who wordlessly kept their plates and glasses full. He’d heard of the Avox, naturally. How couldn’t not he when his own parents were supposedly ones too?

He barely recalls them, but he knew they had tried to run from the District. They had been caught, and only he had been spared by the Peacekeepers because he had been so young. He’d been given to the orphanage, and they had been sent to the Capitol to face their punishment. Now, Will cannot help but peer at the faces of the Avox both fearing and hoping to recognize the vaguely remembered features of his parents; his father had his pale hair, but he inherited his eyes from his mother. Both had been tall.

Beside him, Rosie continues to chatter happily, unaware of his inner turmoil, but Chaff appears to be staring at him in concern. He doubts the man knew what was bothering him. He might have been the talk of the District for a while, but it had been years since then. Still, he avoids eye contact for the rest of the dinner. He had no wish to speak of it.

Eventually, Seeder crosses her utensils on her plate and pushes it to the side. “As you are no doubt aware, tomorrow is your first training session. We need to discuss how we want to play it.” She says.

“What do you mean?” Rosie asks, wiping her mouth with a piece of soft cloth.

“I want to know what you’re good at.” The older woman explains. “What you can do and what you can’t, what you need to learn before you enter the arena.”

“We can skip the plant stations right off the bat.” Chaff declares swirling his glass of wine. “You don’t need it, and it’ll be a waste of time.”

“I’m pretty decent with a slingshot.” He says hesitantly. “Me and the boys make them out of whatever material we find lying around then shoot down birds for lunch. Wood, twine, plants… whatever works.”

“I’m fast,” Rosie mumbles, picking at bread. She’s aware she doesn’t have much to offer in terms of combat. “no one’s ever caught up to me when we race or play tag at school.”

Their mentors exchange heavy glances. “Well, at least you’re not entirely useless.” Seeder sighs. “Tomorrow stick to the survival stations. Concentrate primarily on the fire-starting, the knot-tying, and the shelter-making stations. We’ll figure out the weapon situation later.”

“Let’s go watch the replay of the opening ceremonies and then it’s off to bed for you, kids.” Rosie’s stylist, an orange-haired woman called Leto, says.

And that’s what they did, despite him not being all that eager too with his thoughts always returning to the next day’s training. They had made a target of themselves by sticking so obviously together, now everybody will be looking at them for weaknesses, and those… those they had plenty. And they will be perfectly visible for all at the training.

* * *

Morning comes too quickly. He slowly drags himself out of bed and into the washroom, head pounding and mouth feeling dry. There, he takes a long shower, reveling under the hot spray of water. He was never going to get tired of that, and he is likely to miss it the most of the Capitol luxuries when he enters the arena.

Sometime during the night, an outfit had been led out for him beside the wardrobe, Will notices slightly disturbed once he was more awake and leaves the washroom. He wasn’t exactly a light sleeper, but neither did he think he’d sleep through anyone walking around in his room. More than once he’d been woken by his various siblings trying to sneak out at night. Getting the hint, he puts on the uniform which consisted of tight black pants and a short-sleeved shirt and after an instant of hesitation decides to pull his hair into a small tail instead of leaving it loose as usual. He didn’t want it distracting him today by sliding into his eyes at the wrong moment.

Still not feeling ready to face the day, he nonetheless makes his way to the dining room for breakfast. Seeder was already there and he joins her at the long board set up just to the side of the table. Slowly, he loads up his plate with eggs and sausages which he eats rather unwillingly, forcing himself to choke it down. He will need a lot of energy later, and his customary piece of fruit will unfortunately not do.

Chaff and Rosie also come down, both looking miserable. He suspects the older man was hungover given the amount of alcohol he consumes on any given day and his sister had probably slept as well as he, which means not at all. They had decided the previous evening to stay in their separate rooms at night in preparation for the Games. If… when one of them died, the other needed to be able to sleep alone, or they would not last long. Dying from exhaustion because they couldn’t fall asleep would be humiliating. Their siblings would never let them forget it.

After breakfast, which had been a silent and glum affair, Lucretia shows up to take them down to the training rooms.

Located below the ground level of their building, the gigantic gymnasium they will be training in with the other tributes is filled with various weapons and obstacle courses. With just a glance, he could identify stations for archery, spears, swords, and hand-to-hand combat. The rest are harder to classify, being small areas of forests, deserts, or rocky terrains. That’s where they were going to learn the essential survival skills.

They aren’t the first ones there, but nor are they the last. Silent, they go join the tense circle of waiting tributes as behind them the elevator doors slide open again and another pair steps out.

Soon, a tall and athletic-looking man marches into the room and faces them. “My name is Meleager.” He introduces himself. “I am the head trainer here at the Training Center. Which one of the twenty-four of you standing before me today is left alive in roughly two weeks depends on how well you pay attention to what I’m going to say to you at this very moment. Statistically, most of you will die of natural causes; ten percent from infection, fifteen from exposure, that’s already six, twenty percent from dehydration, that’s another five. Do not, I repeat, do not ignore the survival skills. They just might save your lives. Additionally, there are four compulsory exercises; here, here and the two over there. You will do them, whether you want to or not. That is not up to debate. And one last thing before you are dismissed; there will be absolutely no fighting with the other tributes. You will have more than enough time for that in the arena. May the odds be ever in your favor, tributes.”

Dismissed, they start breaking off to the numerous stations. The Career Tributes head to the weapon stations, of course, to show off and intimidate the field. It works. They are larger, heavier than the rest of the tributes, having been fed and trained their entire lives for this one moment, and they know what they are doing, unlike the rest of them. He’s glad for once for his height, a taller than average for his age which so often made him stand out in a crowd with his classmates, and while he was thin, he was strong, having spent most of his life doing back-breaking work in the orchards in any weather. 

“Come on.” He tells Rosie. “Let’s try the fire-starting station, then I’ll show you how to use a slingshot.”

“But didn’t Seeder tell us to avoid the weapons?” She asks nervously, eyeing the District 1 male, Ajax, wield a spear.

“If we don’t show some fighting capability we’ll be the Careers first targets.”

And that’s the last thing the wanted. They needed to look somewhat competent for the Careers to decide they were more trouble than it was worth that early into the Games. It would give them time to hopefully find a good hiding spot to hole up in until there were fewer competitors still kicking. Therefore, they needed to show that they could fight which meant he needed to teach Rosie some fundamentals. A long-range weapon, that needed little training and little skill, was easy to use and could be made by them from anything if the Gamemakers didn’t provide one, would fit her perfectly, Will had decided after some thought. A bow had been the first weapon he’d had considered, but Rosie was both too weak to effectively use it and didn’t have enough time to properly learn.

That evening as they’re eating dinner, he poses the question that’s been bothering him for a while. “Can you teach us?”

“Teach you?” Lucretia repeats confused.

“How to fight.” He clarifies putting down his knife and fork. “I don’t want to approach some of the combat stations with the other tributes watching, and I thought it’ll be good to hide some of our new abilities.”

Seeder looks considering. “Do you know anything about fighting? Can you properly punch something, at the very least, without breaking your fingers?”

“Dirty fighting mainly.” He shrugs in response. “I’ve gotten into a few schoolyard scraps. Didn’t always win, but the other guy never came out of it looking like a fresh daisy.”

“And you have to have your thumb on the outside of your fist when punching someone,” Rosie adds proudly. “Basil though me that. He also said to go for their eyes, either with my nails or just throw dirt at them or anything really as long as they’re blinded even if it’s temporary. And he said to take groin shots when I can, and that’ll work on the girls too.” Then she wilts suddenly. “Not that I ever had to do any of this.”

He furrows his brows, confused. “When did he teach you this? Why?”

“He said it was just in case someone decided to bully us and he wasn’t around to teach them a lesson. He made sure all the girls at the orphanage knew what to do whether we wanted it or not.” She explains in a mumble.

“That is already a decent start.” Chaff says. “You have no idea how many people unconsciously avoid fighting dirty even in the arena.”

“Don’t try to drag it out. If you can, run.” Seeder advises. “Take advantage of your terrain, anything can serve as a weapon whether it’s a rock of a twig.”

“The Matron suggested poisoning if we got ourselves some alliance.” Claims Rosie.

“That is a good idea.” Seeder agrees. “Most of the Tributes won’t recognize poisonous plants as well as you two. Now, here’s what you’re going to do. Try the bigger weapons during training; swords, axes, you know which ones. They’ll be our distraction. When you come back, Chaff and I will teach you some defensive maneuvers for when you will have to fight for your lives. Because you will, that’s inevitable so don’t look at me like that, Rosalie. Some knife-work and some wrestling won’t be a bad thing either.” She glares at them unsympathetically. “I better not catch you slacking off.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

As if they would. This was too important to not pay attention. They had little enough time as it was, they weren’t going to was what they had by daydreaming of all things. 

And so, it went. During the day, they spent hours in the training rooms, spending most of their time on survival stations, but making sure to try out the numerous weapons too. To his great surprise, Will finds himself not too bad with axes, though he certainly was not a natural. Rosie, on the other hand, turns out to be passable with spear throwing, as long as the target wasn’t too far or moving. They try camouflage but abandon it almost immediately, neither of them having the artistic talent for it. Trap-making goes well for both of them, possessing deft fingers from years of braiding baskets from dry grass. He enjoys the tracking course and goes back several more times for additional instruction.

The two evenings that had that left before their private sessions with the Gamemakers were spent by them receiving personal help from their mentors. As promised they were taught some blade-work using their dinner knives, and some hand-to-hand where for Rosie especially, they concentrated on using her height to their advantage because of her much smaller stature. Demonstrating on each other, their mentors also showed them where to strike best for a faster death, and which wound will bleed out the most. For example, according to Seeder, if they can get a good enough hit into the throat of their opponent, even with a light bare-handed punch they could crush their larynx. From there, only a surgical opening of the airway, and prompt medical attention could save them.

On the third day during lunch, tributes start being called out. First the boy, then the girl, from highest District to lowest. Once they left, they didn’t come back.

“What if I do bad, Willy?” Rosie whispers as Nyle of District 4 is summoned. He leaves, throwing a smile and a wink in their direction to Will’s irritation. He just couldn’t understand why the other boy was so fixated on the two of them. He could swear he’s been practically following them from station to station.

“Then you do bad, flower.” He replies absentmindedly. “Remember that one tribute who won with a score of three a few years back? It just means we won’t have many willing to sponsor us.”

“Oh, right.”

He glances at her and pulls her hand away from her mouth. “Don’t bite your nails.” He tells her entangling their fingers together. “You’ll do fine.”

Some three hours later, he’s finally called. The only ones left by then, other than his little sister, were the two skinny District 12 tributes and they shrink back away from him as he passes them.

He enters the gymnasium and instantly frowns up at the Gamemakers sitting up in the stands. They were drunk. 

He sighs frustrated through his nose, but there is nothing he could do. And it wasn’t as if he was going to impress them much anyway. He heads towards the nearest woodland survival station and after fashioning himself a serviceable slingshot in a couple of minutes, moves towards the obstacle courses.

At the orphanage, they had a game. They would climb the highest branches of the trees in their backyard, or the beams of a barn and swing off them. The one who could make the most challenging leap, the most impressive mid-air twist, the most precarious landing was crowned the winner. He was among the best, being narrowly beaten out of first place by Aster.

Clenching his make-shift slingshot between his teeth, he climbs up the hanging ropes, runs across the bridges daggling from the ceiling as fast as he could and balances on narrow beams.

Clenching his make-shift slingshot between his teeth, Will climbs up to the rope net that hung stretched across the ceiling of the gym. He shows off some of his more impressive jumps and then suddenly to all appearances slips. The few watching Gamemakers exclaim in shock, jumping to their feet. Evidently, they didn’t want their tributes injured days before the Games begin.

With his knees caught in a trapeze, he hangs upside down and giving the Capitolites a mocking sneer, takes out a rock from his pocket, and snipes a dummy in the head with his slingshot. Letting go, he flips in the air and lands on the ground shoulder-rolling forward. He stands facing the Gamemakers.

“You may go.” One of the men nods approvingly, and Will listens, tossing his slingshot into the bushes of the fire-starting station.

He’d shown speed and agility, and some combat skills at the same time. He wouldn't be breaking any records with this. But, he won't be in the lower scores. Maybe he'll get a respectable six, or a seven. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Hunger Games.


	4. Chapter 4

Rosie soon joins him and their mentors in the sitting room of their quarters looking flushed but victorious.

"I did the Gauntlets." She crows. "You know, the obstacle course? I ran them a couple of times during training to get a feel for them, only slowly, so that the others don't realize how quick I really am." She pauses, and a large grin spreads over her face. "A lot of the Gamemakers were paying attention to me."

"Good job, honey!" Will tells her ruffling her hair. "I told you you'll do fine."

"I sure you both did well!" Lucretia says proudly. "Go wash up, and come down for dinner."

Once they had all been fed, they gather in front of the enormous television to watch the scores being announced. Because the training wasn't open to viewers, and their private session where secret, the Gamemakers started assigning a score to each tribute according to how much they impressed them. The number received, from between one and twelve, one being the lowest and twelve being the highest, allowed the public to have an idea where to place their starting bets and the sponsors to have an indication of who was worth sponsoring. Though it was worth remembering that having a high number didn't promise a chance at victory. Often, they were among the first to die. A high combat ability wasn't the only thing that could save a tribute's life in the arena. More than once it had been the ones that hid until the end that won.

Had he been alone, he'd have aimed for something in the middle like a five for his score. He would have hidden his meager potential as a surprise for the arena, but with Rosie… They had to show they weren't worth getting into a fight with. And at the same time, they had to show they weren't threats either. It was a very delicate balancing act between being good and being not _that_ good.

After some music, Caesar Flickerman, host of the Hunger Games for more than thirty years appears on the screen. In all that time, his looks remained virtually unchanged, thanks to the youth-restoring surgery available solely to the Capitolites which allowed them to forever look young if they wished so. The only thing that changed was Caesar's color scheme. This year, it was white, from the dye in his hair to the makeup on his eyelids and lips. It was not a flattering look, and not even his typically colorful suit helped. Will much preferred the previous year's dark green.

One by one, a photo of a tribute appears, and Caesar announces their result. As usual, the Career Tributes get in between eight to ten, while most of the rest average out at a score of five. Occasionally, there are some unexpectedly high scores from the lower districts, such as District 7's Jack, who pulls a nine, and District 10's Cooper, with the same. Although to be fair, they had those two pegged as threats from the beginning, anyway, so they really weren't that surprised. Will had noticed the two of them had stuck to the combat stations with the Careers during training too, and suspects they will be part of the alliance.

It is finally District 11's turn, and his picture flashes on the screen. Rosie's hand slips into his, feeling clammy, and he gives it a reassuring squeeze, trying to ignore his own churning gut. A number appears below the photo.

"Seven." He breathes, relieved. Now, if only Rosie did just as well…

Her picture is displayed on the monitor, and they hold their breaths again as Caesar looks at his notes. "… a score of six."

It was as if an enormous weight fell off his shoulders, and he collapses back into the couch, all his strength unexpectedly gone. Beside him, Rosie is laughing a little hysterically, elbows braced on her knees and trembling hands hiding her suddenly teary face from view.

"You did well." Seeder congratulates them with one of her rare smiles, while Chaff toasts them with his ever-present glass of wine.

Lucretia is also beaming, nodding her head in approval. "We can work with this." She gushes brightly. "Oh, well done! Well done, indeed!"

Only Bacchus remains quiet, watching from his seat, while his partner bounces around happily with their escort. Still, even he has a slight smile curling at the edge of his purple lips.

That night, he finds himself lying in his bed staring blankly up at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep despite the stress of the day. Somehow, his thoughts keep circling back to his siblings and the orphanage. He wonders if they were proud of them. If they had felt as relieved as he and Rosie had been when they saw their scores. His chest tightens, and Will rolls over on his side, tears gathering at the edges of his eyes. He's never felt so homesick before in his entire life. At that moment, he would have given anything to be back at that old, barely standing building, to be surrounded by his dozens of siblings, all laughing and talking and being happy together. He wanted the good, reliable Spade, and the violent, short-tempered, yet exceedingly loyal Basil, and the mischievous twins Heather and Hazel, and sweet, kind, naïve little Eva and… He squeezes his eyes shut. He'd be happy with even the Matron.

He loved Rosie, really. Just like he loved all his siblings. But they've never been that close. And however much he wanted to deny it, she will be a liability in the Games. Too soft, too caring, anyone who spent two minutes around her could see that. Would a girl who hated killing _bugs_ be able to kill a human? Would she able to ignore the urge to help a wounded opponent? He knew people tended to change in the arena, but will she be able to change enough? Will it be in time or will it be too late? Will he even like the change, who she will become? Or will he regret not killing her to spare her from what will follow? Because he's thought of that, and often. He'd thought of killing her as soon as the Games started. A stab through the back right into her heart, he had imagined. Easy, quick, and most importantly, she wouldn't have suffered. He'd thrown up in the washroom after, disgusted with himself, but he had nonetheless still seriously considered it, if only so that she'd died pure and innocent instead of with bloodstained hands. He had decided against that plan of action eventually since he didn't think he had the guts to go through with it.

There is a knock on the door, and with a start, he realizes that dawn had come and he hadn't managed to sleep at all. He rises from his bed with a groan, dragging a hand across his face. It was going to be a miserable day, he just knew it.

* * *

Before they are let out into the arena to kill each other, all the tributes have to face the interviews. Their main purpose was to show the Capitol a little about each tribute to assist them in selecting their favorite, while for them it was their final chance to attract a sponsor. Will was not looking forward to them. He never did well in front of crowds, that's what he had Quil for. His older sister would have thrived under all that attention.

They start with presentation. For hours, Lucretia had them learn how to walk, how to sit, how to smile… It was as horrible as he had expected it to be, though the Matron had done her best to beat proper manners into all of their thick skulls. Apparently, her efforts haven't been enough. According to the adults, he had a habit of slouching horribly when sitting, while Rosie gestured with her hands too much when talking. Among other things. Because, of course, they had a lot more problems than that in their etiquette training.

"Be grateful you aren't a girl." Their escort tells him during a short break. "I would have put you in the tallest heels I could find and a full-length gown in addition."  
"I just don't see how it matters how much or how wide I smile. My cheeks are starting to hurt." He complains, and Rosie giggles in response.

After lunch, they all gather back in the sitting room for the content session. There, they had to decide how they were going to present themselves to the audience. Are they going to be charming? Or will they be fierce? Or maybe they should be humorous? Their task was to figure out how they could appeal to the crowds the best.

"We'll definitely have to go with the protective big brother angle for you, Will," Seeder says and no one argues. It was the most obvious route for him. "while you, Rosie, could try the adorable, friendly one. Remember, as long as the audience likes you, they don't necessarily have to like Will too and verse versa. In this, you have an advantage in coming as a package deal from the start."

"I'll just channel Basil, then." He jokes.

"Only if you don't try to punch Caesar." Rosie returns, and they crack up. It wasn't hard picturing their brother hitting the man for one reason or another.

Lucretia and their mentors act as the interviewers, asking them questions similar to the ones Caesar has asked in the past. He thinks it goes well at the beginning, but by the end, Will has a mouth dry like the desert and wishes it was over. He becomes sullen, grumpy, and a little too angry to justify continuing the fake interview. Even Rosie's almost ever-present smile starts slipping into a frown.

"Leave the kids alone." Chaff finally interrupts his partner. "They get it."

Seeder scowls, clearly displeased, but at long last dismisses them and they quickly escape before she could change her mind.

After another long sleepless night, his room is invaded by his prep crew who don't let him out of their clutches until late afternoon. His hair is styled the exact same way it had been during the Chariot Ride only with a slightly less noticeable hairclip, and the blue paint on his nails is redone, covering the chipping that had happened while he was training. They don't cover him in glitter or decorate his face and arms with stunning designs again, but they do spend hours spreading all kinds of creams all over his body until his skin seems to glow. Even his makeup is understated, with only the slightest darkening around his eyes and some skin-colored concealer to hide his eyebags.

Bacchus enters with a big bag and the team eagerly sets to dressing him in his costume. Again, the theme was blue, from the darker coloring of the suit to the lighter, shimmering shade of the dress shirt. It was fitted perfectly, but he can't help tugging on a sleeve with a grimace as he examines himself in the full-length mirror.

"Something wrong?" His stylist asks mildly.

"No! No." He hastens to reassure the other man. "It's beautiful."

"But?"

"I don't feel all that comfortable wearing this." He admits.

"Take off the jacket." Cyrus suddenly interjects and shrinks back when they all turn to look at him.

Bacchus observes him for a long moment. "You have an idea?"

"Y-yes." The man stammers, avoiding his gaze. He must have thought he was overstepping his boundaries.

"Then go right ahead." The stylist invites indifferently and Cyrus edged nervously around him as he approaches Will.

Carefully helping him out of the suit jacket, the man's black gem-adorned hands smooth down the wrinkles in his shirt and pop open the first couple of the top buttons. After a second of hesitation, he also loosens the dark blue tie from its constrictive choke around Will's neck, before stepping away. "There." He says, looking a lot more confident. "Much better, I think."

"Oh!" Coco exclaims. "Roll up his sleeves too, Ciri!"

Back in front of the mirror, he had to admit his prep team members were right. Not only he looked better, he could actually recognize himself in the reflection now. It was something he could imagine wearing, had he had the money to buy such clothes.

They meet up with the rest at the elevator, and Rosie turns to looks at him anxiously. He has to admit Leto and her prep team did a good job. He'd been afraid his little sister will be made to look more mature than she really was, but that wasn't the case at all. Instead, she wore a fluffy and white short dress and tiny kitten heels. Her hair was styled into curls, and the only hint of makeup was in her rosy cheeks and pinked lips.

"You look cute." He compliments her with a soft smile.

"Thanks." She tells him, ducking her head shyly. "You look nice too."

The elevator doors open, and they join the other tributes in lining up to take the stage. Soon, they are paraded single-file up the platform and seated in a big arc on an elevated dais. He takes an opportunity to look curiously around in an attempt to calm his racing heart. Another elevated seating unit had been set up for prestigious guests and the tributes stylists. When their work was presented, the cameras were supposed to turn to them. There was a large balcony too, which was reserved for the Gamemakers, while all the other ones were commandeered by a multitude of television crews. The entire place was so packed with people, it was standing room only.

Caesar waltzes onto the stage to the enthused applause of the crowd, and it begins. One by one, tributes stepped to the center of the stage and for the next three minutes all attention was on them.

The first one up was the girl from District 1, Satin. Black-haired and green-eyed, she looked stunning in a floor-length form-fitting silver dress which twinkled under the lights. There was only one angle she could play and she did it perfectly. She was sexy, she was provocative, she made the audience fall in love with her. It was amazing really, how easily she managed to manipulate the Capitolites.

Her district partner who was next in line was less charming, and more barely contained violence. He spoke of how he couldn't wait to be out in the arena, of how long he'd been dreaming of this occasion, and the longer he talked, the more Will was certain he did not want to meet him once the Games started.

As usual, Caesar did a wonderful job. With his help, even the jumpiest of the tributes became stars. It was his friendliness, and his willingness to laugh at the weakest jokes that made him such a good host. It was his reactions to what the tributes said that made him a crowdpleaser even outside the Capitol like when he acted horrified when the District 6's female tribute bursts into tears as she explained she volunteered for her best friend because she was already dying of an illness. An illness that was entirely curable in the Capitol, but was much too expensive to treat anywhere else.

It's is Rosie's turn, and she bounces onto the stage with a large grin. You couldn't tell at all how terrified she truly was.

"Hi, Caesar." She chirps before he can say anything. "Call me Rosie. Everyone does."

He laughs. "Someone's excited! Very well, Rosie it is."

They exchange some pleasantries, and then Caesar gets down to business. "So, Rosie, tell me. Are you and William really not siblings?"

She wrinkles her nose. "Technically, no. But we all consider each other family back at the orphanage. Even Aster." She leans forward as if sharing a secret and Caesar follows suit. "She's mean and can be pretty nasty, but we love her anyway."

Will imagines the girl watching the interview back home and had to stifle the smile that threatens to spread on his face at the mental image of her face turning an angry red when she hears this. The others were going to tease her mercilessly for weeks.

The spectators laugh and Rosie beams at them with a what-can-you-do shrug. "There's always that one family member, right?"

"Yes, yes." Caesar acknowledges. "My uncle exactly." He becomes serious again. "Now, what about fighting? Can you fight, Rosie? I remember you getting an impressive six as a score."

She nods. "One of my other older brothers thought me how to. He didn't want me getting bullied, you see."

"Oh? And did that happened often?" Caesar looks concerned.

"Not at all. Not after I punched one of them right in his nose." She giggles sweetly. "I think I broke it."

That was a lie. But judging by the crowd's reaction, they entirely believed her and were extremely impressed. The situation had really happened, but she certainly wasn't the one doing the punching. And it hadn't been Basil, either. There was a reason why they all tried to keep Spade happy. He had a long fuse, but once his patience ran out, it got very explosive. Luckily, he also normally calmed down quickly.

Three minutes are up, the buzzer sounds, and Rosie flounces back towards her seat after a quick round of goodbyes with Caesar.

They announce his name, and Will makes his way to the center of the stage. In a fit of inspiration, he disregards everything Lucretia had said about proper posture and collapses into the chair like he would have when surrounded by the people he knew. All self-confidence with a hint of arrogance as if he and Caesar were old friends.

"And you must be the big brother." The man extends a hand in greeting.

"One of them." He lazily agrees, shaking the hand.

"The scariest?"

"Not by far." He chuckles. "But still pretty scary, I hope."

"I've been wondering, exactly how many of you are there? There you two, and Aster and the other big brother who thought Rosie to punch bullies in the nose..."

"Well, people come, people leave. Currently, there are thirty-eight of us, if you don't count the adults who take care of us. With them, it's forty-two."

Caesar whistles impressed. "That's one big family. Must be hard at times with so many people in one house."

He shakes his head. "I wouldn't know. It's always been that way for me, I don't remember anything else."

"William…" Caesar begins, and he immediately interrupts.

"Will."

Caesar raises an eyebrow but indulges his demand. "Will, then. Will, what would you say are your strengths?"

He pretends to mull it over. "I won't starve for one, and I know how to take care of my wounds. Medical herbs." He explains when some of the Capitolites in the crowd look confused. "I won't be in as much danger of dying from an infection. And I'd say I'm rather handy in a fight too."

Caesar turns sideways to the audience. "You hear that? Sounds like we got a pair of fighters here. Speaking off." He faces him again. "Will, everyone is eager to know, are we looking at an alliance here?"

"Me and Rosie? Of course. We're staying together until the end, whatever it might be." He smiles, sharp and angry. "I'll kill anyone who thinks they can lay a hand on my little sister while I'm still alive like a rat who got into the grain. Painfully." The buzzer sounds and he rises. "It was nice meeting you, Caesar. Love the suit."

The cameras follow after him until he's seated again, and then switch to the trembling District 12 girl. He squeezes his eyes shut and exhales heavily, hands clenching the fabric of his pants. It was over, for better or worse, and there was nothing more he could do.

* * *

He finally manages to get some real rest, thanks to Chaff, who slips him some sleeping pills with a wink after the interviews. Come dawn, when Bacchus gets him from his room and leads him to the roof, he doesn't look half-dead from exhaustion. There, a hovercraft seemingly appears out of thin air, and a ladder drops down. As soon as he starts climbing, a sort of electric current freezes him in place. Before he can panic, he's slowly lifted inside. As soon as they reach the top, he prepares to let go, but instead of immediately releasing him, a man in a white coat approaches his frozen form to jab a syringe into his forearm.

"A tracker." The man explains matter-of-factly. "It's easier to implant when you're still."

The worker leaves, and it's only now he's free to move again. He steps warily away when the ladder starts descending for Bacchus, unwilling to be forcefully held immobile for an instant longer and heads into the neighboring room from where he could smell breakfast. He doesn't feel like eating at all, but he still forces himself to fill his stomach with as much filling food as he possibly could without throwing up. He's well aware it might possibly be the last time he could ever eat that good again.

Bacchus joins him at the table. "That was some attitude yesterday." He notes uncaringly.

He snorts. "Not really."

A purple eyebrow rises, and the stylist stares at him, head tilted to the side, and smoldering cigarette hanging from his fingers.

"The people are going to see the real me in the arena anyway, so I didn't see the need to be all that polite like I did for you." He explains wryly.

"It was all an act?"  
"Not _all_ of it. I can be respectful occasionally too." He grins. "Besides, I was told to channel Basil for the interview, so that's what I did. He's the rude one in the family."

They ride the hovercraft for about an hour before the widows suddenly blackout. He'd been passing the time by looking out at the passing wilderness, and he moves away from them disgruntledly. They were nearing their final destination.

Once the Hovercraft lands, they go back down the ladder, only this time they descend much deeper, down a tube underground, and into the catacombs below the arena. From there, an Avox leads them into the Launch Room.

"We call them the Stockyard back in the districts." He tells Bacchus offhandedly.

The man frowns. "Why?"

"Because that's where the animals go before they're slaughtered."

"Ah." A dry smile flickers across his face. "I suppose you, the tributes, are the animals in this metaphor?"

"Yep." Will says, examining the newly arrived clothes, and then curses loudly.

Bacchus approaches and rubs the material of the grey turtleneck shirt between his fingers thoughtfully. "Thermals. Those are going to be some cold Games."

"Yes." He growls. "And there goes our biggest advantage. Do you know how many species of plants grow in below-zero weather? I can count them on my hands and nearly all of them are bioengineered by the Capitol. What more, most are purely decorative!"

The only non-waterproof clothes Will had been provided with turn out to be the shirt and the socks. Everything else, from the furry-hooded coat to the pants, to the heavy boots were white, waterproof, and visibly made for warmth. Even the gloves and belt were the same. Thankfully, nothing was bulky, and they were actually reasonably comfortable to move in. Will assumes the clothes were made of some kind of special material available only in the Capitol, they were so light.

As he pulls his hair into a tight tail, Bacchus produces a pendant from his pocket. "Your token, I assume." He says.

Will reaches out and takes it, twisting it around in his hands. It might be a simple circle of dark wood hanging from a leather cord, depicting a carving of a large tree, but it had been a present from his siblings for his last birthday and as such infinitely precious to him. He hadn't taken it off since receiving it, and had been wearing it for the reaping. He'd been forced to part with it during the Chariot Ride and he hadn't thought he'd see it again. His throat tightens, and he puts it on, tucking it away securely beneath his shirt. It reassured him, to feel it hanging against his skin again.

Soon enough, a woman's voice pleasantly announces it was time to prepare for launch. He walks over to stand on a circular metal plate in the middle of the room. Faintly, he realizes his hands are shaking. A glass cylinder lowered around him, and he begins to rise. His last sight before being blinded by bright light is off Bacchus staring back at him, casually smoking his cigarette.

All around him booms the voice of the announcer, Claudius Templesmith. He says the same thing he says each year with only the slightest of variation to the numbers. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the Sixty-sixth Hunger Games begin!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own the Hunger Games.


	5. Chapter 5

In the lower districts, all children unanimously feared being chosen for the Hunger Games. They weren't fools, they knew their chances of winning were closer to zero. By the time they turn twelve, they had all seriously asked themselves if they could ever kill another human being. They knew that with each additional tesserae they signed up for their odds of being picked increased, but could do nothing for they desperately needed that extra food. At the orphanage, the Matron forbade more than five tesserae per person. Still, it had never been enough to feed everyone through the year, and many took more on the sly for the younger children.

Nightmares were very common in the weeks and days leading up to the Reaping for the newly turned twelve years old. Will had his fair share where he found himself in one past arena or another. He never lived in those dreams and having watched so many Games he had plenty of gruesome deaths for his subconscious to choose from. Most of all, he feared dying a prolonged, drawn-out death. Dehydration, hunger, infection… He'd rather have his throat cut. At least this way he wouldn't suffer long.

Not that the rest of his nightmares were any better, featuring the people he loved best in the same arenas in his stead. Spade and Basil most frequently because they were the oldest and had the most paper slips with their names written down. Hazel and Heather, less regularly, but always together when they died. Little Eva, eternally screaming for him, begging to be saved with blood dripping from her mouth and her guts falling out.

Finding himself living the stuff of his night terrors wasn't such a surprise to him as one would expect. He'd steeled himself to this possible outcome the first time he put down his name for tesserae and he understood there will be no volunteers for him. Not in district 11. There was no glory in it like in 1 or 2. Rather, it was considered suicide to do so. They had exactly two volunteers in the entire history of the Games. Both times it was for family. Neither survived the first day.

Will takes one deep breath, then another, trying to think past his rising panic. This wasn't another of his dreams, this was reality. He had to concentrate because he has just sixty seconds to get his bearing before he can step off his metal circle. Any earlier and he will be blown up to kingdom come by the landmines buried underneath. The previous Games, one of the female tributes had dropped her token, a wooden ball of some sort. They Gamemakers ended up having to scrap pieces of her from the ground. That too had features in his nightmares once or twice.

His head turns from side to side as he attempts to take everything in at once. They had been raised from the underground complex in a circle with the Cornucopia, a twenty feet high shining horn made of gold metal standing in the middle. From its mouth spilled out the things that will help them survive in the arena; food, water, medicine, and of course, weapons. As usual, the farther away the supplies lie from the horn, the more their value decreased. If they wanted the best items, they will have to fight for them. Much of what little food he could see was right in the center of that pile.

Unlike most arenas, they weren't on a large and flat, open stretch of ground. Instead, it was a small clearing covered in snow, surrounded by an enormous wall of cloudy, entirely smooth ice that rose to maybe two hundred feet in height. Here and there, it was interrupted, breaking off in favor of openings as tall as the walls themselves of various width. Some were wide enough for only one person, others for approximately five people side by side. From what he could see from his position, each led to more passageways and corridors.

He catches Rosie's eye from where she stood almost opposite him and inclines his head meaningfully towards one of the smaller openings closest to her. She nods quickly and readies herself to run. The numbers projected above the Cornucopia count down, five, four, three… He slides his feet into position, aiming for a small pack not far from him. Two, one, the gong sounds, ringing loud and clear. He lunges forwards, scoops the pack up, instantly slinging it over one shoulder and turns in Rosie's direction.

It was chaos, all around him. Some had aimed to escape right away, but others had stayed, fighting for the smallest scraps. The Careers were already at the weapons, fiercely defending their prize. A girl falls, then a boy, their blood staining the snow bright red, and their eyes glassy in death. Another tribute is chasing after his little sister, a sword in hand. He's too far to help, not fast enough to reach her in time, but he had seen a spear lying not far from his position, so he abruptly changes course and dashes towards it. He had promised to do his best to come back home, but he can't let his sister die this early in the Games. Even deliberately standing aside while someone killed her, would just as surely destroy him from guilt as if he did the deed himself on the off chance he survived this. He's going to keep them both alive for as long as possible.

He reaches the spear, kicks it off the ground in one smooth motion as he did with rakes or brooms to conserve the few precious seconds he had, takes a couple more steps, and flings it forward with all the strength he had. By some miracle, it lands on target, and the other boy stumbles and collapses face down on the cold ground, the metal shaft prodding from his back. Will doesn't have time to stand around awed by the success of his desperate gambit, he had taken off running again as soon as the spear was in the air, focused on reaching his sister who had by then disappeared in the corridor none the wiser. He doesn't waste time getting the spear back as he passes the body. It was lodged deep into the muscle and bone, and he couldn't afford to dawdle around trying to dislodge it. Better leave before anyone noticed him.

He enters at full speed the roofless corridor of ice and follows the trail of clearly evident small footprints in the snow. That was going to be a big problem. They weren't going to be able to effectively hide if they were so easily tracked. He takes one turn at an intersection, then another and another. Before he knows it, he's hopelessly lost. The sound of battle slowly fades, so he must be getting farther away from the Cornucopia after all, and he slows to a brisk walk to conserve energy. It's quiet. Too quiet. The only noise is the snow crunching underneath his feet and the howling of the wind in between the cervices of ice. It's also bitterly cold. Despite his warm clothes and his constant movement, he's already chilly.

"Willy?"

"Rose." He exhales in relief and envelops the quivering girl in a hug. "You're alright." He whispers to her, pressing a kiss on top of her head. "We're alright."

They stand that way for a long moment, calming down and suddenly exhausted as the adrenaline left their systems. Eventually, he steps back reluctantly, tugging Rosie's hood back on from where it had fallen around her shoulders.

"What are we going to do now?" She asks, tucking her hands in her armpits to keep them warm.

He drops down onto the snow, leaning against the wall and pats invitingly the spot beside him. "Let's see what we've got first. You grabbed a pack too, didn't you? That's good."

"Is that safe?" She questions cautiously and glances back the way they came.

He shakes his head in response. "If someone was coming, they'd have caught up by now."

Rosie shuffles in place nervously, considering, and finally slumps down, sliding her pack off from her shoulders. They're both light blue, which was not necessarily the most convenient of colors, but hardly the worst. The Gamemakers could have effortlessly made them a vivid pink. It would have been their idea of a joke. Bright beacons seen from far away, and impossible to camouflage in this snowy wasteland.

In the distance, the cannons boom. One time, three times, four times. They pause, exchanging alarmed glances. Only four dead tributes at the Bloodbath. That was unheard of. There always had been at least seven of them. Rosie visibly swallows, and he hopes the Careers track down a few more tributes by the end of the day to lower their numbers.

They go back to carefully laying out their supplies. First, they pull out a woolen scarf with a hat, which he passes on to Rosie ignoring all protests, taking for himself a sort of half-mask that covered the lower half of his face and his neck instead. There were also a pair of huge goggles with mirrored glass, several packs of jerky and crackers, enough to last them for a couple of days, a coil of rope, a bottle of foul-smelling liquid, a small knife, a portable bug zapper-like thing, some kind of attachment probably meant for their boots with wicked spikes jutting from the bottom, and two ax-looking sticks with a much thinner head than a real ax. He'd say it wasn't a bad haul, only there was barely any food, nothing to keep them warm other than their clothes and they had no idea what half of those items were used for.

Nothing to drink from either, but that was the least of their problems unless the Gamemakers had poisoned all the surrounding snow and ice.

"Oh!" Rosie exclaims suddenly and reaches into the pocket of her coat. She pulls out a slingshot and a bag of a dozen small, hollow glass marbles. They were filled with some sort of swirling gas inside. "I also got those. Here, take them."

"No." He refuses firmly. "Keep them. Just be careful with the marbles, angel. I wouldn't like to find out what that gas does on ourselves."

She hesitates. "Are you sure? You're better than me at this."

"I want you nowhere near a fight, but I can't leave you without a way to defend yourself either," Will replies distractedly, busy attaching the sheath of the knife to her belt. "just in case you run out of ammunition and you need to fight close combat, love."

"And what exactly are you going to do?" She wails almost desperately.

He says nothing, picking up one of the axes, thoughtfully dragging a hand over the gently curving shaft. He suspected they were meant to aid in climbing up the ice, but the head was sharp and pointy. They'd work as weapons too in an emergency, Will decides, sticking both handles through his own belt. Easier and faster to reach there than hidden in his bag.

He refills the packs, keeping the heavier one for himself and stands. "C'mon. We should get moving. It'll keep us warm and maybe we'll find something other than those endless corridors of ice. I'm already sick of them, and it's been barely half a day."

They go back to moving at a hurried pace, trying to put as much distance from the Horn of Plenty as possible. The scenery doesn't change much, the same ice rising on either side and the corridors sometimes widening, sometimes narrowing. Occasionally, they face dead-ends and have to back-track, other times they come across their own footprints again after taking a wrong turn. It doesn't take them long to guess why that happened, why they kept returning to places they have already been. A maze. Their arena was a giant labyrinth of ice with no exit and the Cornucopia likely as its center.

Evening starts falling. Snow too, lazily twirling across the darkening sky. That was the good thing, it'll cover their tracks before anyone could hunt them down. The bad news where the softly glowing walls. They were illuminated from the inside, providing a constant source of light. Nighttime wasn't going to be as safe as they'd expected when they were planning with their mentors. No one will be needing flashlights and torches to continue searching for them.

Their frantic speed falters, Rosie beginning to trail behind. With nowhere to conceal themselves, they settle down in the middle of a short corridor, away from any large intersections, and huddling together for warmth as the temperature dropped sharply. Hopefully, they'll hear anyone coming long before they see them, giving them time to run in the opposite direction.

The anthem soon plays, the sudden noise shocking in the former silence. The seal of the Capitol appears to be floating in the sky. He knows the people in the Districts will be watching the full coverage of every death, but they, the tributes, will be only seeing the same headshots with their district numbers as when they were given out their scores. It was considered unfair otherwise. The Gamemakers didn't want them to know the skills of their adversaries before they faced them in battle. It was the same reason why their private training sessions remained secret.

Will flinches when the first image appears in the sky. The boy from 5, Dean. The one he killed. He didn't know whether to be happy or cry. He was a killer now, but he did it to protect his sister. Did that still make him a good person? The boy's family and friends will certainly not think so.

District 6's sickly volunteer Luna, no surprises there. And District 8's twelve-year-old male, not unforeseen either. Flint, of 12. The Capitol symbol appears again with a final musical number, then the night sky is dark again, not even the stars visible behind the thick clouds. There was twenty of them left.

"Willy?"

He hums inquisitively, looking down at the little girl snuggling into his side.

"Are you alright?" She asks, peering at him in concern.

"I'm fine." He lies with the ease of long practice. "Go to sleep. I'll wake you in a few hours."

She must have been exhausted because she's dozing in seconds. Will leans his head back against the wall, watching the snowflakes fall. They were a rare sight back in the District. Idly, he starts playing with the bug zapper-thing, twisting and turning it in his hands. It was small and there was a ring at the top to attach it to something. His fingers find a button on the bottom and he presses it. With a soft crackle, it turns on and starts radiating a gentle heat. Rosie sighs contently in her sleep, shuffling closer to the warmth. The bottle of unknown liquid must be the fuel for the heater, he realizes. They'll have to conserve it carefully. With the lack of wood, this was the only thing that will keep them from freezing to death.

There's a sound, like the creaking of ice, and his head snaps up, guarded. He turns off the heater, stuffing it back into the pack, and gently shakes Rosie awake. Before she can speak, he clamps her mouth shut with his hand and raises his other to his own, a single finger extended. She nods her head frantically in understanding, and he releases her, straining to hear more of that strange sound. It repeats, louder and longer, and slowly the walls begin shaking.

"What going on?" Rosie whispers, clutching at his arm, eyes darting about.

"I don't know." He murmurs back. "But I'd bet it's nothing good."

There is a loud boom, and under their disbelieving eyes, the walls gradually move. They stagger away from them, falling to the ground in the mad scramble, mouths dropped open wide in incredulity. It felt as if the whole world was shaking. Will blinks, in his shocked state having difficulty comprehending that their passageway was narrowing. They were going to be squashed in between like bugs into pulp.

Move, he wants to scream, but his voice isn't working. He stumbles to his feet, pulling at Rosie insistently until she follows him up and takes off in a dead sprint. They make it out just barely, sliding across the ice and into a new corridor as the walls slam shut behind them. The horrible, bone-rattling grinding sound stops, and the silence returns to the maze.

They lie in the snow, panting. There is another boom, and they bolt up again, ready to run, but the walls remain motionless.

Rosie collapses back to her knees and breaks down into tears. "It was just the cannon. Someone died, that's all."

That's all indeed. Was it wrong that he only felt an overwhelming sense of relief it wasn't them? That there were now five less people trying to kill them because they were dead?

He releases a shaky breath, which misted in the air in front of him, and positions himself against a wall again, now infinitely warier of it. Rosie crawls back under his arm, and he couldn't force himself to ask her to stay awake so that he could grab some sleep too. Someone needed to keep watch and she wasn't in any state to do it.

When dawn finally begins to break Will's so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. Thankfully, it wasn't the first time he had an all-nighter and he knew from experience that as soon as they start moving again he'll feel alert again. If he could spend a day working in the fields after a night with no sleep with no problem, he shouldn't have any trouble in the arena doing the same. Rosie shakes herself awake soon after, used to waking up this early for her work in the greenhouses and school. They share a bag of crackers for breakfast and have a mouthful of freshly fallen snow instead of normal water as a drink to satisfy their thirst. It's freezing cold and hurts their teeth but it's better than nothing.

When they start walking they don't have any specific destination in mind. They are aware, though, that staying in one place will be suicide. With any luck, they will find something other than the unending hallways of ice and more optimistically, something alive other than another tribute. They wouldn't last long with the little food they had, even with their familiarity in going hungry for long periods of time.

Snow begins falling again, having stopped sometime during the night. Once they come across marks deliberately carved into the walls at an intersection but no footprints. Someone had clearly passed by the previous day. They debate for a long moment in which way to go before Rosie mentions that it could be a trap. Maybe someone wanted them to follow the unmarked path right into an ambush she suggests. With that, they resolutely turn around and walk back the way they came, rather than take the risk. They'll return to the last intersection they had found and go in the other direction.

They end up regretting that decision when they find themselves face to face with a wolf after making the wrong turn. It was bigger than them and had jagged spikes of cloudy ice shaped to resemble real fur. Its eyes glowed a menacing blue from within as its head unhurriedly turned towards them. A mechanical parody of the beloved genetically-engineered mutts the Gamemakers adored to use in their Games. Each newly created species were met with delight by the Capitol crowd and horror by the districts who yet remembered the devastation they had brought during the Dark Days. Tracker Jackers were still a big problem in District 11.

"Run," Will whispers, taking a slow step back. The wolf takes one forward then another, silent except for the sound of ice grinding against ice. "RUN!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own the Hunger Games.


	6. Chapter 6

They’ve been in the Arena for five long days. Their food had run out the previous day and they have yet to find anything else that was remotely edible.

Actually, they have yet to find anything other than white snow, endless moving walls of ice, and ginormous wolves that wanted to rip them to pieces. They haven’t even seen another tribute! And they knew there should have been seventeen more of them wandering around.

They did find out that the Gamemakers' new mechanical mutts, while impossible to destroy with their current weapons, were fairly slow. Outrunning them became their plan of action whenever they came across them, whether there was only one or an entire pack. There seemed to be a fair number of them too, most often found prowling at large intersections waiting for some unfortunate tribute to inadvertently come across them. The Gamemakers must have been having fun chasing them around if the increasing number of encounters meant anything. They hadn’t been able to properly rest in a couple of days now, new mutts appearing every time they tried settling down for a quick nap. 

Despite the hunger, the biting cold, the growing exhaustion, and the constant threat of their imminent demise, Will thought it had become… boring. They were just aimlessly drifting through the corridors of an ever-changing maze quietly singing songs under their breath. Or at least, Rosie was. He hummed along occasionally. Which is why he knew things were going to change any moment now. Capitolites will never be satisfied with an unexciting show, and consequently, the Gamemakers will have to step up their game sooner or later. Of course, maybe they were merely busy tormenting the rest of the tributes, but considering the considerable lack of death in the past few days, Will somewhat doubted that. Accordingly, when they are forced to backtrack after the corridor they were traversing through turns into a dead-end by an abruptly shifting wall and they come face to face with the girl from District 3, he isn’t surprised at all. 

There is a moment of stillness as they wait for the other to make the first move before the girl suddenly launches herself at them with a battle cry, a sharp machete raised high over her head. Rosie squeaks in fear and stumbles away, fumbling for her slingshot.

He barely yanks out one of the axes from his belt in time to stop the blade from burying itself in his skull. Straining to hold it up, his other hand gropes for his second ax and he takes a swing at the girl’s unguarded side. She avoids it by a hair’s breadth, the cloth of her coat ripping and a thin red line appears on her bared skin. A few drops of blood drip unto the snow from the head of his ax.

With the girl out of arms reach, he makes to run but abruptly aborts the motion when she copies him. He tried the other side, and she jerks that way too. Apparently, she wasn’t going to let them go that easily. She wanted a fight.

His hands clench hard on the shaft of his weapons, and he balances on the balls of his feet, his eyes never straying from his opponent. He had to distract the girl long enough for Rosie to slip past, and then hold her attention so that his little sister had time to run away.

Shit, he hoped the District 3 tribute was alone.

The girl lunges forward again, and Will dances back, ducking under her wild swing. Too much power and not enough technique, he judges silently. She’s never been in a real fight. She was just desperately hoping to hit something of his before he hit her. Not that he was all that experienced either, but he was suddenly thankful for every brawl Basil had ever dragged him into. It wouldn’t be enough against a Career, but he won’t be an embarrassment for his District either.

As the girl’s blade passes next to him again in a doublehanded swipe from overhead, he bats it away with one ax and sinks the edge of the other into her unprotected flank.

Her cry of pain seems to echo in the endless corridors of ice. Even the glacial wind quiets down its unceasing howling.

The girl rips herself of the ax with a squelching spurt of red, and she drops her sword in favor of grasping at her wound. She’s crying, harsh sobs escaping from her throat and tears freezing on her cheeks even as they trickled down.

“Please!” She gasps out, staggering. “Please don’t kill me! I won’t go after you again, I promise! I’m just so hungry! Please!”

Will stills, watching the girl warily. He’s never killed anyone in cold blood before. And she looked so pitiful like this, eyes wide and pleading for mercy. This wasn’t anything like with the boy from the Bloodbath. Then, he hadn’t had time to think, hadn’t had time to properly realize what he was doing.

He swallows harshly. He didn’t know if he could do this. It wouldn’t be self-defense anymore. To strike her down while she was weaponless and injured and clearly already defeated would be murder. Real murder. He’d be killing her for the sake of killing. Nothing was stopping him from simply walking away. Whatever happened to the girl after wouldn’t be his fault. Whether she bleed out or got caught by a mutt or another tribute, it wouldn’t be on him. 

Will does what he promised to himself to never do in the privacy of his own mind and hesitates to complete the killing blow. It proves to be almost his undoing.

“Watch out!”

Trying to evade the unexpected attack, Will trips over his own feet and collapses into the snow, staring wide-eyed at the girl who had having sensed his momentary weakness, reached behind her back and pulled out a small knife before lunging at him, aiming for his chest.

Something whizzes by his face to splatter over the girl where it starts eating away at her uncovered flesh, smoking slightly. If he thought her earlier scream was horrible, it was nothing on the yells of agony she was letting out now. Whatever liquid she had been sprayed with, it was painful enough for her to attempt to claw off her own skin with her blunted nails after her gloves dissolved.

“Willy…” Rosie whispers fearfully from behind him.

He glances back at her, feeling stunned. Sometime during the fight, he and the District 3 girl had switched spots so that even as Rosie had run, he had appeared to have been protecting her retreat. That was the good news; keeping up the role for the very rich sponsors was important. The bad news was that Rose had evidently decided to creep back to his side before he could tell her it was safe to do so. In her hand, she was tightly squeezing her slingshot.

He wants to be angry, to shake the idiotic girl by the shoulders and lecture her about her safety until he was blue in the face, but… he just didn’t have the energy.

“Was that…” He begins and has to start over when something in his throat tightens. “Was that your marble?”

She nods, and throws her arms around him, hiding her face into his neck. His arm comes up around her shoulders to press his little sister closer to him, and he watches as the other girl drops to the ground convulsing face down in the snow. It took a while for the screams to quiet down.

The twitching stops, and a cannon booms. Well. He guesses that was it for District 3. They were the second district after 5 to have both tributes killed.

“Look away.” He tells Rosie and gets up to cautiously approach the corpse. Kneeling on one knee, he turns it over, and he cannot contain a horrified gasp at the sight of the girl’s face.

Acid. That was the ammunition for the slingshot. Very, very potent acid that only needed a small amount to be deadly. He leans over to the side and heaves uselessly since there was nothing in his stomach for him to vomit.

Eventually, he gathers himself enough to slip the knife, which turns out to be a multitool type, into his own pocket. It didn’t strike him as particularly useful in their current environment, but who knew, maybe it’ll come in handy later. It wasn’t heavy and didn’t take up a lot of space, it would be a waste to throw away another weapon.

He pauses and stares blankly at the burned corpse. It would be disrespectful to scavenge through the bag of a recently dead, but what if she had lied and she had food after all? Will doesn’t ponder on morals for long and investigates through the inside of the girl’s backpack with only the barest flickers of guilt buried deep inside his chest. Screw morals, he wanted to live, dammit.

She hadn’t lied, there really was no food though a few empty wrappers pointed to there having been some in the past. What she did have instead was another heater and more gas. There was also some nylon rope, a harness, several quickdraw clips, and large screws. In short, everything one would need to climb the sheer ice walls, and nothing else.

With a sigh heavy with disappointment, Will begins scavenging. Even tightened to the maximum, the harness would have been too loose for Rosie, so he tugs it onto himself after several false starts. They’ve never needed such equipment to climb trees in their orchards, and like the spikes for their boots, it would have taken too long to figure out how to wear when they were trying to escape something in a hurry. Better have it already ready. Letting the rest of the gear hang from his belt, he contemplates the slowly freezing body. It would be a shame to let such a nice and warm coat go; they could use it as a blanket at night and burn less precious heater oil.

Nodding resolutely, he tugs it off, grateful it seemed clean of chemicals. Just in case, he scrubs it hard with a chunk of ice in the snow before draping it over Rosie. “Here, you did good today.”

“I killed her.” She sniffs heartbreakingly, wiping at her eyes.

“You saved me, lovely.” He counters, shaking his head, and kneeling again. Gently, he grabs hold of her hands. “She tricked me, and if it wasn’t for you and your warning, she’d have gutted me with that knife. I’d be dead.”

It had been a stupid mistake. An easily avoidable mistake that had cost the remains of Rosie’s innocence. They were both killers now.

He glances back at the body and grimaces. They’ve lingered for too long, it was time to move. There had been a pack of mutts they’ve been running from before this happened, and they gave them more than enough time to catch up if the Gamemakers had moved the walls again to let them pass. They should have been gone even before the other tribute had died. Her screams could have attracted the unwanted attention of others.

“Take this.” He says, picking up the long sword from where it had fallen and had already been almost completely covered by the freshly fallen snow to slide it back into its sheath and attach it to Rosie’s belt. It was a little long for a smaller than average thirteen-year-old, but it was also unusually thin, making it much lighter than normal, and thus easier to use for a girl with noddle arms. “Remember, this is only for last resort. I still want you to use your slingshot first. There will be absolutely no charging into battle alongside me, is that understood?”

Rosie doesn’t answer, but she does finally stand up, trying to look determined despite her teary eyes and dripping nose. She studiously endeavors to avoid looking in the direction of the body.

He sighs again, mentally cursing out their ancestors for losing the war. “Time to go, sweetling.”

* * *

Their best course of action would have been to backtrack again instead of pushing forward into the direction the girl from 3 had come from. However slim, there were chances she had allies and neither of them was willing to fight anyone again. Unfortunately, the way back was closed. Instead, they follow the girl’s footprints until the first crossroad and select the corridor with the undisturbed snow.

Sadly, it turns out the Gamemakers weren’t done with them. Once again, their chosen route is cut off with a shifting wall and this time another passageway opens up on their right. Not being idiots who were willing to be herded to their doom without a fight, they first attempt to go right back the way they came from – again – but that corridor had been closed too. With deadens on both sides, they had no choice but to go right.

They turn the corner, and he’s meet with the half-familiar green eyes of Nyle Abano. The boy from 4 had just turned his own corner barely a hundred meters away. Behind him came the progressively louder voices of more people asking why he had stopped so suddenly. Career Pack.

“Blossom,” He addresses Rosie. “whatever happens, don’t stop running.”

His hand worms into her closest pocket, where she kept her marbles for easy access and he palms a couple of them.

“But where are we going to run?” Rosie whispers back, edging behind his back and readying her slingshot.

She was right to worry. The Gamemakers had cut off all of their escape routes with their blasted moving walls. They only had one option and that was forward. Forward toward a group that both outnumbered them and outskilled them, because while they were busy murmuring to each other, Nyle is joined by the tributes from District 1, 2, and his own District partner who Will didn’t remember the name off, but who he’d seen at the Training Center with the spears. 4 had always done well with that particular weapon, likely thanks to its resemblance to the tridents they used for fishing, and the girl had been no exception.

Will had the dubious luck of having the chance to watch an interview of Finnick Odair, the winner of the previous Games when their first-period teacher had gotten sick. He had been describing how during certain times of the year, the waters District 4 fished from was teeming with so much fish the usual nets weren’t enough. The District children would be given the tridents and they would spear the fish swimming in the shallows until it was red with blood and it was impossible to see what they were aiming at. The interviewer, a flirty woman three times the boy’s age, had asked why they didn’t use fishing rods. Finnick had laughed in response. “Because it would take too long then.” He said with such a cheery grin you’d almost forget he was the youngest victor ever in the long history of the Hunger Games.

The Career Pack doesn’t hurry, approaching steadily and calmly in a line that spanned the entire corridor. They have no need to rush and they know it; if they hadn’t tried to run by now, that meant they had nowhere to go. Only the most stupid would attempt to stand their ground in such a situation if it hadn’t been necessary.

“Look, it’s the pretty boy and his fake sister.” Satin purrs, carelessly swinging her long blade as she stepped closer. She was one to talk, being more of a looker than Cashmere herself. She had no right to look as beautiful as she did after spending so long in the wild. 

“We… we’ve killed people, you know,” Rosie calls peering around him, her voice weak and stammering. “We’re dangerous.”

The Careers respond by cruelly laughing at her feigned bravado, approaching even nearer until they were in Will’s throwing range. This close, he wouldn’t miss.

“We’re not going to kill you, Will, Rosie,” Nyle says calmly, the only one to not snigger. “If you give us your food, we’ll let you live.”

Will blinks, alarmed, and his eyes dart from one face to another, searching for a hint of a lie, but the furry hoods prevented him from seeing much. Still, they seemed to be telling the truth.

“You don’t have food?!” Rosie exclaims incredulously. It was a ludicrous idea, that the Careers didn’t have food. The only times they didn’t have an absurd amount of supplies was when it had been ruined by another tribute or it had been destroyed by the Gamemakers when the Game was coming to a close. They were not even a week in, and there were sixteen tributes left.

“What happens if we don’t have any either?” He questions warily.

The Careers exchange a glance, and Ajax smirks. “Then we kill you and check for ourselves.”

“I see.” He manages and frowns. What was stopping the Careers from killing them first and searching their bodies after? Unless it was a lie and they were just playing around with them, trying to see if they really would fall for that trick. “Oh.” Entertaining their sponsors. Getting them to like them. That’s what they were doing. No doubt the Capitolites would be gleefully betting right about now on what he and Rosie would do next.

Will takes a step, another, and before the Career can react lobs the marbles in his hand.

“Cora!” Nyle yelps and he takes the opportunity to charge through their broken blockade, Rosie at his heels.

“IT BURNS! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!”

The Careers don’t give chase immediately, occupied by their wounded ally. It gives them time to cover enough ground so that when Will glances back, he doesn’t hear the sickening crunch of the girl’s bones when Ajax swings his sword and takes off her head in an uncharacteristic act of mercy. Though, it nevertheless wasn’t sufficiently far to miss their rage-filled glares. The boom of the cannon declares the beginning of their pursuit, and Will honestly didn’t know how they were going to survive. The fuckers in charge of the Arena weren’t likely to move the walls any time soon and conveniently cut off their pursuers.

Running is hard, painful. The third time Rosie stumbles, he grabs her by the hand and mercilessly drags her after him. They slip and slide, and icy snow keeps getting into their boots. In places, they have to fight through drifts deep enough to reach their knees. They are overly warm inside their clothes, but the air they breathe in is bitingly cold. Their packs are heavy and slowed them down even further. Within minutes, he develops a painful stitch in his side, and his throat becomes so raw every breath was pure agony.

They take random turns, not caring where they go as long as it was away. The Careers curse and struggle behind them, at times catching up, at others falling behind. They keep panting out threats, describing in detail what they were planning to do to them once they caught them. Rosie was crying and coughing and he feared she would start choking from a lack of air any second now.

Their salvation comes in the shape of a hole in the wall so small you’d have to crawl on your hands and knees to get in. At first, he thinks he’s going to pass out, that he was starting to see black spots, but it remains in one place, unmoving. Real.

He doesn’t stop to think. For all he knew, it could be the den of a mutt or a Gamemaker trap, and he couldn’t care less. It was something new, something they have not seen before in the days they had spent wandering the maze, therefore it must be important. More importantly, there was the slightest chance it could get them away from the Career Pack hunting them. He dives into the cavern feet first, without bothering to slow down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own the Hunger Games.


	7. Chapter 7

Shooting out of the tunnel through which he had slid down at break-necking speed after recklessly diving into it, Will struggles to his feet and away from the opening just in time to avoid being bowled over by a screaming little sister. Rosie flies past him and goes spinning further into what was apparently an underground cave when she attempts to futilely slow herself down. She loses momentum by hitting a pillar and comes to a stop several meters away from him, panting harshly.

“Alright?” He asks, one hand pressed to his mouth as he fought back nausea. His heart was still beating as if he had just run a marathon, and his stomach had been forgotten somewhere outside.

“Ugh,” Rosie tells him, and he takes that as a yes. He begins shoving the axes he had used to stop himself by sinking them into the walls of the slide back into his belt but rapidly reconsiders his decision, thinking of another urgent use for them. Silently gesturing at his sister, he has her stand on the other side of the tunnel’s opening with her rapier drawn and lifts his own weapons above his head, ready to move at a moment’s notice.

He planned to kill at least the first two of the Career Pack to descend down the tunnel with an ambush, but a minute passes, then another, and no one comes. Feeling his arms tire, he lowers them and cocks his head with a puzzled frown. They knew where the two of them were hiding. Their footprints would have clearly shown the path they had taken. With the cannons having failed to fire, they were also obviously still alive. So, what was taking them so long to follow after them?

There is a clang in the tunnel and his attention snaps back to it.

What was that sound? He exchanges a further bewildered glance with Rosie. That wasn’t another person sliding down the passageway. It was more like –

A small shape clatters out of the tunnel, and his eyes widen. “GET DOWN!”

The grenade detonates in an explosion of fire and sound.

* * *

Will cautiously moves his hands from where they had been covering his skull and lifts his head, blinking rapidly. He had dived to the side and behind a pillar quickly enough to avoid serious injury, though his cheek stung where a shard of ice had skimmed him, and his ears rung from the loud bang.

Shaking his head to clear it, he sits up carefully. Bright red catches the corner of his eye and he pales when he meets the terrified gaze of his little sister. 

He might have come out of the blast relatively unharmed, but Rosie… Rosie had a pair of bleeding scratches too, but most concerning was the large chunk of ice sticking out of the back of her shoulder. Unlike him, who had fallen flat on his stomach, she had curled herself into a ball to protect herself and had gotten hit worse because the pillar she had hidden behind was thinner than his. Blood was already seeping into the coat’s fabric around the wound.

“Rose!” He thinks he must have exclaimed loudly in a panic, but the world around him was still muffled as if he was underwater.

Clambering over the mound of ice that the collapsed mouth of the shaft had become, he pulls his sister towards him, hands fluttering uselessly around the wound.

“Hurts.” Rosie’s mouth shapes or some approximation of it. “Willy, am I going to die?”

“No. I won’t let you. Not like this.” He vows.

Only… he didn’t know what to do. How was he supposed to treat it? It didn’t look life-threatening, but what did he know about injuries? Almost nothing, that’s what. He could set a broken bone, or a dislocation, he could wrap a bleeding wound. He couldn’t determine the severity of that wound, or if it had caused internal damage. Where there any important arteries in the shoulder? Could he risk removing the ice without running the chance of Rosie bleeding out?

The girl sags, her head lolling on his shoulder. The pain had become too much and she had fallen unconscious.

He was running out of time to do something about this.

“Alright, time to wing it.” He mutters with false bravado and coughs when the lingering in the air mist created from the crushed ice tickles his throat. “Hopefully, I don’t make things worse. Oh, please don’t let me make it worse.”

He leans back against the pillar Rosie had taken shelter behind and maneuvers his sister until he could reach the wound without great difficulty. Shrugging off her backpack, then his, he blindly searched around until he feels one of the heaters under his hand and pulls it out. He couldn’t risk removing the piece of ice stuck in her, but he couldn’t leave it there either. He hoped melting it slowly will give time for the blood to clot.

He didn’t even need to clean the wound; the glacial water had done the job for him. Through the sluggish trickle of blood – the cold had probably helped with that – Will could see cracked bone. The shattered shoulder blade was far beyond his meager healing skills. And medical supplies for that matter. He could bind it, and maybe immobilize it, but that was it.

Using his newly acquired knife, he unhesitatingly rips up the sleeve of his equally new coat to pieces. The stuffing he uses to pad the wound, and the remaining material he turns into bandages. Later, he’ll likely have to clean them in the snow before recycling them, because they didn’t have any extras.

With the most pressing of his concerns dealt with, he turns towards the rest. Although they had avoided most of the blast, they had still been hit with some shrapnel. He had a large piece stuck in the back of his tight and another in his hip. A few smaller ones in his arm too. Rosie, on the other hand, had half of her back peppered with several more. It’s what woke her up with a scream full of pain, him digging into her soft flesh with the pliers from his knife to pull the metal out.

“Shh.” He tells the girl, putting more weight on her to keep her still. He had stripped her off her coat, laid her down on down on it on her belly, and had then straddled her from behind, one hand holding down her uninjured shoulder precisely because he had been afraid she’d jerk at the wrong moment. “I’m almost done.” The shard of iron drops on the ground, and he passes the back of his hand across his forehead, leaving a streak of blood. “Just a few more to go. Endure it, baby.”

Heedless of Rosie’s pained crying, he mercilessly digs in for the next fragment. He couldn’t leave it in as it would only cause more harm, so she had to suck it up and bear through with it.

When the last of the shrapnel is finally pulled out, Will has more ice melt on the wounds since it had worked so well for the shoulder and sacrifices the second of the new coat’s sleeves for dressings. Only with Rosie done and once she had passed out again, does he turn to himself.

Ideally, he would have stitched close the wound on his cheek. As it was, without proper care and merely a quick press of snow to slow the bleeding, it was going to badly scar. The wounds on his tight and hip are more easily dealt with, though much more excruciating. He bites his lip until that starts bleeding too to keep himself from screaming when he searches for the metal wedged inside him. Afterward, he sits panting for close to half an hour, eyes clenched shut and bloody pliers held loosely in his hand, thanking whatever gods people had believed in before Panem that neither of them had bled to death from a nicked artery.

Eventually though, recalling the danger they were still in has him sliding open his eyes with a grimace to observe their surroundings. Similar to the outside, the walls and the ceiling, and the floor of the large cave glowed from the inside in a stunning light blue mixed with white, only here it created designs of light in the ice resembling water reflections. What he had first taken for pillars in the confusion of their escape from the Careers and then the bomb and unexpected field surgery were actually connected stalactites and stalagmites of ice. The ground was incredibly smooth with the barest hint of a patchy snowy layer, which meant it would be harder to track anyone.

The maze was intimidating, but this… this was beautiful.

It was warmer too, by just a bit. And even the howling wind had been replaced with the echoing steady dripping of water from the ceiling. For the first time in a while, Will could see the purple color of Rosie’s lips fading into an almost healthy, but still too pallid pink. His fingers moved easier and he could actually feel his toes. It was also nice to not have his nose hair stick together every time he breathed. He’s almost forgotten what’s it like to inhale and exhale without discomfort.

The only problem was that he couldn’t get out anymore the way they had come. The grenade had completely collapsed the opening to the outside. Unless there was another way out, they were stuck until they cleared out debris. And that’s hoping the collapse hadn’t affected the entire tunnel. He didn’t fancy being buried alive. From the several times he’d seen it happen in previous Hunger Games, it was an unpleasant and often slow way to go.

Stumbling to his feet, Will limps further into the cave struggling to rid his mind of the image of himself choking on his blood after being impaled by the ceiling. It was quickly replaced by one where he was slowly suffocated by the rubble crushing his chest. Delightful. He could already see all the nightmares that were going to plague him in the future.

Luckily, there was another way out. Kind of. Will concludes this was the second level of the maze, staring tiredly at the two passageways he had just discovered; one that went down in a small incline, and the other straight but branching off into three more directions further in.

He glances back towards his sister. Only the tips of her boots were visible from behind the several stalagmites she was hidden behind. She wouldn’t be easily seen from the passageways.

He faces forward again.

“Eeny, meeny, miny, moe –” Muttering, he points with his finger. Landing on the one that didn’t split in more directions, Will adjusts his grip on the shafts of his axes and projecting confidence he certainly wasn’t feeling, marches ahead.

The passageway is long. Without the sky, he’s unable to determine precisely how long but his internal clock told him he had been walking at least fifteen minutes when he finally came out of it. He’d elected to go in a straight line, ignoring the two or three round openings in the sides. It prevented him from getting lost and he wasn’t looking for thoroughly mapping out the place. He was only trying to find an example of the kinds of danger they will face on this level.

The new cave he enters wasn’t as big as the one they had landed in, but it was even more beautiful in his humble option. Will crouches down and trails a soft finger over the flower growing amidst the thick, downy snow. With the petals shaped similar to those of a lily and colored in a gradient mix of ice blue, dark blue, and white with silver stems and leaves there was no mistaking it. A carpet of Fallen Snowflakes.

The pillars and ceiling were covered in another plant of similar coloring. The petals were slightly darker and both stems and leaves were navy. In form, they resembled wisteria and here and there he could spot small frosted silver berries. Those were Frozen Tears.

That was a lot of food, he can’t help but think, eyeing the berries with a watering mouth and a rumbling stomach. Immediately jerking back in horror at the thought, he flings the single berry he had picked as far as he could throw it.

It was a good plan from the Gamemakers, he has to admit. Starving tributes wouldn’t think twice before gorging themselves on this feast. Both plants were rare and only available in the Capitol. They wouldn’t know better unless they came from District 11 and had worked in the Genetics Department. Like Will had.

As the name implied, the Genetics Department was the ones who were in charge of improving old species and creating new ones. For example, the favorite flowers of President Snow had come out of their labs. Will had seen the original successful bush and had thought the genetically enhanced perfume of the white roses had been sickeningly sweet.

Fallen Snowflakes and Frozen Tears were initially intended to be purely decorative, commissioned for a winter wonderland-themed birthday party of the daughter of a high-ranking and very wealthy Capitolite about a decade ago – she even got to name them. They had achieved their goal, but hadn’t managed to fix the last snags; other than being finnicky to grow and requiring low temperatures for maximum comfort, both species were highly poisonous.

Disappointed, he’s about to leave when an idea hits him. Dropping his axes into the snow, he begins filling his pockets and his backpack with as many delicate berries as he could without crushing them. Later, he was going to smear their juice all over the blades of their weapons. This way, a single tiny scratch will cause pain to their enemies. And a stab wound? Just might well kill them even if they got away. It was a good thing they wore gloves and had most of their skin covered. They wouldn’t be accidentally poisoning themselves since they wouldn’t be in contact with the poison.

In the distance, there is an echoing growl. He freezes, listening intently. It wasn’t one of the wolf mutts from the outside. They had a clear crystalline sound. This was more animalistic. More _alive_ than mechanical.

Will shivers and not from the cold. Gamemakers had the bad habit of reusing the bodies of the fallen Tributes. Almost every game, part of the mutts they sent out had been modified corpses. It was horrible and gruesome and only the Capitol found it was amusing. Tributes went in the Arena knowing that if they died, it more likely than not that their bodies will not be returned to their Districts for burial. The moment they were Reaped, they became the property of the Gamemakers. They had no free will and had to spend the rest of their usually short lives dancing like puppets on strings to their tunes.

There is another howl, further away this time, and he relaxes as much as he could while in the Arena. Rubbing tiredly at his eyes – ignoring the dried blood he was scrubbing off his face – he turns away. It’s been a long day, he’ll figure it out after a nap.

Returning to Rosie, he pulls her head upon his lap and lifts he coat he had wrapped her in, but not properly put on, to check on his dressings. They seemed to hold, so he increases the temperature the heater was emitting and settles down. Only, his thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone.

He had an important decision to make. If he was to break his promise and abandon Rosie, this was the perfect moment. She was injured seriously enough moving would be a problem. She had become a liability. Before, at least, she could have played backup with her acid marbles. Now, if she could move, which was very doubtful, she most certainly would not be able to run.

He couldn’t stay with her. They needed food, and there wasn’t any here. Eating snow wasn’t going to sustain them for much longer. It wasn’t a defensible location either. If other tributes found them, or a pack of mutts, they were toast.

He didn’t want to do it. He really, really didn’t, but he wanted to live too. He did his best, he got her this far. Wasn’t it enough? Everyone would understand. They wouldn’t blame him.

But…

He couldn’t.

Logically, it was the best move. He knew that. He still couldn’t.

Tears of frustration spring to his eyes, and he buried his sobs into the top of Rosie’s hood, clutching her close. 

It _hurt_, not knowing what to do. He’d been vaguely aware he’d might have to make such a decision before, but it hadn’t seemed real. Not until now.

He tilts his head back to look at the stunning ceiling, quickly freezing tear tracks glistening on his cheeks, and whispers pleadingly, “Please. Help us.”

Please, let there be sponsors watching.

Please, let them have a heart.

While in the Districts most people only saw an edited cut of the day’s event at the end of the day because they couldn’t stop working for weeks at a time, in the Capitol, life ground to almost a halt. On their televisions, they had a channel dedicated to a specific tribute, so though it was unlikely many in the Districts saw much of him after the impromptu field surgery, there was a chance a few Capitolites were still following him and could hear his plea for help. If they didn’t, there was also the chance it would be replayed as a short clip in the recaps tonight. They just had to last that long. And maybe, just maybe, they will be moved enough by his and Rosie’s plight to do something about it. 

He hated being reduced to begging for help from Capitolites of all people. It left him with a bad taste in his mouth. Yet, he didn’t have any other choice. It was either this or leaving his little sister behind to die alone.

He didn’t think he’d be able to live with the guilt.

Slowly, after crying his eyes out, he drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Hunger Games.


End file.
